


Trade Negotiations

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Diplomatic Relations [1]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Broken Bones, Developing Relationship, Diplomacy, Duelling, F/M, Fights, Flirting, Heat Stroke, Insults, M/M, Princes & Princesses, Sparring, Threats of Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-12-26 14:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 44,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Shizuo stares at the broken dummy, sweat trickling against his forehead and down towards his eyes; and then there’s the sound of clapping, the noise of incongruous applause, and his attention jerks up and away with all the speed of startled adrenaline behind it." Shizuo is dreading the start of peace talks between the neighboring kingdom and the one he will one day inherit, but when he meets the foreign prince, he finds himself more than a little distracted from politics by his personal feelings.





	1. Diplomatic

Shizuo is dreading the arrival of the diplomats.

He’s not cut out for politics. All the years of his life that have led up to this moment, all the uncounted hours of lessons and practice and presentations and carefully structured debates; it’s all as useless as the attempts he made at learning to dance with anything like grace to his movements. He can follow the basic steps of a dance the same way he can recite back the list of manners and titles and openings to polite small talk; but when he tries to apply them to reality his steps falter, his words stall, and he ends up trapped in closed-mouth silence or blurting something accidentally rude before he realizes what it is he’s about to say. He would stop trying if he could -- the idea of giving up is a relief even in his own mind -- but he’s still the heir to the kingdom, regardless of his personal tastes and abilities, and that means he has a certain level of responsibility he has to take on, regardless of how ill-equipped he is to handle it.

It would be better if it were Kasuka. Shizuo has thought this before and he’s thinking it now, as he strides out of his latest series of lessons that are framed as refreshers and functioning instead as a crash course on diplomacy before the arrival of the visiting delegation. His younger brother has polite blankness down to an art form, from his unreadable expression to the tone of his voice; Shizuo thinks Kasuka could imply interest in what someone else had for breakfast, if he wanted, thinks he could declare war on another nation without giving offense. Kasuka can navigate a conversation with a foreign nation as smoothly as the crowded ballrooms that are so overwhelming to Shizuo, and it’s Kasuka who draws casual conversation from visiting monarchs with the same ease with which he pulls in a cluster of admiring noblewomen ready to fawn over his every smile and coo over his every word. Shizuo doesn’t envy him that last -- it just sounds exhausting, to be even more in the public eye than his current status already forces him to be -- but he does wish, sometimes, that he had some small fraction of Kasuka’s calm grace in social situations, something to ease the path that his right of birth and burden of responsibility will inevitably force him down.

There’s nothing for it, of course. When Shizuo was younger he would sometimes break free from lessons with the force of a tantrum, would throw his ink bottle across the room and tear his books to pieces and knock his desk over in a fit of princely pique that no one but his immediate family was able or willing to stand against. His temper has gotten no better since then, has eased no more than the burden of his position has; but he knows, now, how useless such tantrums proved in achieving anything other than disrupting a single lesson and bruising his knuckles on the force of the reckless punches he would throw against whatever surface proved nearest to hand. He still feels the burn of irritation in his chest with every calm-voiced suggestion from the instructors brought in to work with him, still feels that sense of a trap closing on him with every hour of study that goes by; but now he knows better than to fling his books across the room, has mastered enough self-control to grate out at least the illusion of an excuse before his frustration grows too great and he has to push himself away and break free of the stifling confines of the rooms within the palace that look so large and feel so claustrophobic.

There’s always the training grounds, at least. Shizuo likes those far more than the palace itself; they’re open to the air, and all but deserted except when the soldiers and guard trainees are working through their midday practice. Kasuka goes through his combat training with the same stoic indifference he shows to dancing, and conversation, and study; but Shizuo throws himself into it, satisfying some measure of that tight-wound irritation in savagery expressed against a training dummy or the wide shield of any guardsman willing to spar with him. He was young when he first discovered the relief of it, when he found that the weight of a weapon in his hand drained his muscles of tension as well as strength; now he’s spent years visiting the grounds every chance he gets, whether for training or otherwise. There’s no one who will spar with him now, not without a direct order to force them to it; but it’s not really practice Shizuo is after, when he comes down here, and the lack of an opponent is no difficulty at all. He’s not really fighting someone else, when he heaves up the weight of a sword ostensibly too large for him and throws himself forward against the unflinching resistance of the battered dummies the soldiers use for practice; it’s his own containment he rails again, and all he needs for that is something with enough resistance to beat himself upon until he’s too tired to continue.

He goes for the swords today, as usual. There’s an archery range as well, for those more inclined for long-distance attacks, and a jousting field with a few quintains and a handful of rings set up as targets; but archery requires a calm mind, and jousting requires saddling a horse, and even though Shizuo appreciates the whole-body impact of the lance landing hard against a target it’s not what he’s craving right now. So he makes for the hard-packed dirt of the sparring ring, where the soldiers can face off with hand-to-hand weapons of their choosing, and the only preparation he allows himself is stripping off the weight of the blue coat he’s had slung around his shoulders all day. He tosses it over the edge of the fence without thinking of the delicate white embroidery laid into the cuffs and around the collar -- that’s all part of the burden of his role, however essential keeping up his appearance may be -- and forgets it at once, leaving it behind him while he unlaces the top inch of his white shirt and rolls the loose sleeves up just over his elbows.

There’s a barrel full of practice weapons in the corner of the space; swords, mostly, in a variety of sizes and weights, although there are a few weapon variations there as well, for those who are feeling more inventive in their attacks. Shizuo isn’t. He has a basic knowledge of most weaponry as part of the training he grew up with but he’s not really interested in the heft of an ax, or the unbalanced weight of a mace; it’s the swords he likes, the bigger the better, and when he pulls one free of the barrel it’s a large one, a heavy, two-handed thing that stands well over his head as he turns it to upright and steadies the weight of it against his grip. He can feel the ache of exertion run down his arms, straining against his muscles and settling into his shoulders like it’s coming home to stay; it feels good, like it’s pulling apart the anxious stress of those stupid lessons and his own greater stupidity in struggling with them, undoing all the pomp and circumstance he’s been suffering through all day to leave him with the simple, straightforward effort of holding something heavy, of applying his body to an action he will either be able to do or not do, where the question of success comes down to a matter of strength instead of skill, a test of his body and not of his mind. Shizuo shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath of cool air; and then he pivots on a heel, drawing the sword around next to him as he rocks forward onto his toes, and he kicks into a lunging charge towards the nearest training dummy.

He loses track of time at once. It’s an effort just to hold the weight of the sword in his hands; every swing against the dummy jolts up his shoulders, every snapping recoil threatens the grip of his fingers against the hilt. Shizuo slams the weapon into the resistance, beating against the wall the dummy makes with no consideration at all for form, or grace, or any of the steps his combat instructors have given him; this isn’t a fight, it’s relief, it’s just unleashing all the pent-up energy that he’s been nursing over those too-long lessons in a single physical rush. The sword smacks against the dummy, the edge or the flat or even the hilt, on a few ill-considered attacks; and Shizuo keeps going, feeling his breathing sticking in his chest and his palms going slick with sweat and still continuing on, tightening his fingers and swinging his arms even as his muscles strain protest, even as his shoulders begin to ache and his legs begin to tremble. It feels good, feels  _satisfying_  as even the most perfect social interaction could never manage to be; Shizuo thinks he could do this for hours, could linger into the shadows of the night with only the rain of the unceasing blows against the dummy in front of him to span the time. Then the weight of the sword slams into the give of the shape before him, and there’s a  _crack_  loud enough to startle Shizuo out of his almost-rhythmic attacks, and while he’s blinking with the sudden return of his awareness the dummy before him tilts to the side, angling away in a slow descent before its support gives way entirely and it clatters to the ground alongside the shattered beam. Shizuo stares at the broken dummy, sweat trickling against his forehead and down towards his eyes; and then there’s the sound of clapping, the noise of incongruous applause, and his attention jerks up and away with all the speed of startled adrenaline behind it.

He has an audience. He hadn’t realized there was anyone else here, has no idea when they arrived; he’s been utterly lost to the rhythm of the blows he was landing against the practice dummy before him, too absorbed to notice the shadow of the onlooker leaning hard against the edge of the fence as he brings his hands together in a lazy smatter of applause. He’s lounging against the support, his whole body tipping forward into a slouch as graceful as the curl of his fingers as he claps, and he’s dressed in colors Shizuo has never seen on one of the palace servants, in a dark coat that fades into the shadows behind him and a shirt the brilliant color of a dying sunset, a crimson that makes Shizuo think of fresh-spilled blood. Shizuo doesn’t remember ever seeing the other before, although that’s not saying anything terribly surprising; the palace is full of servants, several of whom he’s sure he’s never even seen properly and far more of which he has never spoken to. It would hardly be a shock to have this lithe stranger be one of them, even if the bright of his eyes and the curl of his lips carry a self-assurance that Shizuo has never seen on any of the servants around him, even those not cringing back in fear from his fabled temper. It doesn’t matter who this stranger is, in any case; because Shizuo is looking at him now, is seeing him properly, and he’s sure he’ll never forget the way his jaw tightens on instant, unequivocal dislike.

“Well done,” the other calls, letting his hands drop to hang slack over the edge of the railing as he sees Shizuo turning to look at him. His voice is as sharp as his gaze and the twist of his mouth; it sounds like a knife against the quiet of the space around them. “I had heard rumors of the ogre prince, but I had no idea they were true.” He lifts a hand to brace against his chin and lets his head tip sideways into the support as his mouth curls on a lopsided smirk. “How lucky for me, to have such a good story to tell when I get home.”

Shizuo stares at the stranger from across the distance of the training yard. His arms are aching, he can feel his shoulders trembling from his recent exertion; there’s sweat sticking his shirt to his shoulders, the heat of exercise radiating off his skin with every ragged inhale he takes. The other looks cool, composed, consummately put-together; he’s like a textbook example of the appearance Shizuo is certainly not offering, of the expectations that so beleaguer his every waking moment.

“I don’t like you,” Shizuo says by way of answer to the other’s comment, and throws the practice sword in his hand to the ground to punctuate. The weight of it clatters against the hard surface as if to lend weight to his words, but the other’s smile doesn’t tremble; if anything it pulls wider, drawing up at one side as he keeps gazing at Shizuo as if at some fascinating animal trapped inside a cage for his pleasure. Shizuo stares right back, letting the weight of his scowl carry his initial statement while he considers the other. “Who are you?”

“You don’t recognize me?” the stranger asks, making the words lilt like a laugh more than a question. “Someone hasn’t been doing their homework.” Shizuo hisses, a spill of incoherent irritation tearing past his teeth, and the other lifts his head again and lets his hand fall slack over the angle of his other arm still lying against the top of the fence. “Then again I suppose literacy might be asking a bit much of you. Do they truly expect an animal like you to take over the kingdom? We might as well wait until your ascension for negotiations, it would be  _so_  much easier to gain the upper hand.”

It’s a rapid array of insults, one falling atop the other as quickly as the other speaks; Shizuo grimaces and shakes his head as if to throw off a swarm of flies, to brush aside the irrelevancy of the other’s words. The mockery is unimportant, even if it does tighten his shoulders and hiss past his teeth; there’s more under the words than that, some half-formed implication under  _we_  and  _negotiations_  that slots in against that combination of colors, the red and black together enough to tickle something very nearly recognition in the back of Shizuo’s head. He knows those colors, has seen them on coats of arms in his books, in the history lessons he’s drowsed his way through, in the discussions--

“ _You_ ,” he blurts, and he’s turning to face the other fully, striding in to cross the distance between them as he places that suggestion of recognition. “You’re here for the  _negotiations_.”

A dark eyebrow raises, the arch of it lifting along with the corner of the other’s mouth. “Very astute,” he drawls, making the compliment into a mockery as Shizuo closes with him. “More than I expected from the Ogre Prince. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Who are you?” Shizuo demands as he strides up to the edge of the fence, as he reaches out to brace his hands against the railing on the outside of the other’s casually folded arms. He’s leaning in over the edge, frowning hard as he glares down at the stranger; but the other doesn’t tip back, doesn’t so much as flinch at Shizuo’s sudden approach or obvious discontent either one. He just tips his head up, lifting his chin into a haughty tilt that casts his eyes into shadow, that sets his mouth on tension at the same time he tips his shoulders back and straightens his spine. It’s a little thing, a tiny shift in his stance; but it changes his whole bearing, turns him from languid to regal in the span of a breath, and Shizuo is drawing back instinctively even before the other ducks his chin into the tiny, barely-there nod that is the closest thing to a bow to be offered between equals.

“I’m Izaya,” he says, casting the words into such a weight that Shizuo doesn’t need to hear the title that follows immediately. “His Royal Highness, the Prince of Numora.” He delivers the words with a practiced lilt to his voice, the tone of someone well-versed in the cadence of heralds and ballroom introductions; and he’s gazing at Shizuo without the least sign of self-consciousness, with a kind of amused interest wholly unmitigated by any sign of subservience, and it’s that, more than anything else, that convinces Shizuo of the truth of the other’s words. “It’s nice to meet you, o great Ogre Prince.”

Shizuo bares his teeth at the mocking title, growling incoherent frustration at the insult even aware that his own response casts the words into a greater seeming of truth. Izaya doesn’t even give him the satisfaction of flinching away; he just laughs, the sound bright and piercing through the quiet of the training grounds and Shizuo’s fast-fading comfort at a single strike.

If his own feelings about the visiting prince are any indication, Shizuo thinks the negotiations may be doomed before they’ve even begun.


	2. Composure

“We’re almost done,” Celty says, murmuring the words towards Shizuo’s shoulder as she frowns at the knot of his tie and tugs hard at the trailing ends of it. “Just give me one more minute.”

“Take as long as you want,” Shizuo tells her. “I don’t want to go out any sooner than I absolutely have to.”

Celty huffs a laugh without looking up from her focused attention. “There’s not much choice for the prince of the realm to duck out of the welcoming dinner for the visiting diplomats.”

Shizuo groans. “I know,” he says, and lifts his chin without being told to give Celty a better angle on his tie and to give himself the relief of staring up at the blank white of the ceiling overhead in hopes for the minor miracle that’s the only thing that could save him from the banquet to come. “That doesn’t mean I have to be excited about it.”

“It can’t be all that bad,” Celty tries. Shizuo appreciates her attempt at optimism, even if the wobble in her voice makes her uncertainty far more clear than he thinks she intends it to be. Celty’s never been very good at any kind of deception, white lies or otherwise. “It’s just a few hours of conversation.”

“With total strangers,” Shizuo says. Celty draws her hands away and takes a step back and Shizuo lets his chin lower without relinquishing the frown at his lips as he lifts a hand to touch against the tidy knot Celty’s practiced fingers can always achieve far faster than his own. “They already think we’re a bunch of savages.”

Celty makes a face. “Surely not,” she says, though she still sounds deeply unconfident in her own statement. “We have different cultures but that hardly means--”

“They think _I_ am, anyway,” Shizuo says. He feels bad about talking over her -- Celty is so consistently ready to hear his own complaints it hardly seems fair to cut off her replies -- but memory is flickering in spite of himself, recollection offering the cut of a razor-edged laugh and the glint of blood-red behind dark eyes fixed on him with as much mocking as one person’s smirk can carry. “I’m a monster to them.” He grimaces and ducks his head, lifting a hand to shove roughly through the carefully-combed hair the servants have been fussing over for the last hour. “Their stupid prince called me an ogre.”

“You’re not,” Celty says, and she’s stepping back in, reaching up with perfect equanimity to pull Shizuo’s hand away from the tie at the nape of his neck so she can tug his hair back to smoothness. Shizuo ducks in surrender to her efforts, letting the floor bear the brunt of his scowling irritation as Celty pulls the rumpled mess he’s made of his hair back into order. “Maybe he was just teasing you.”

“He was serious,” Shizuo growls at the floor. “He’s the worst and now I’m going to have to deal with him the whole time the damn summit is happening.”

“Maybe you won’t,” Celty attempts. “There’s other people visiting, and other people in the castle. Maybe you can just avoid him. It can’t be that bad if you’re not seeing him.”

“Maybe,” Shizuo says, feeling skeptical and sounding petulant. Celty is being nothing but reasonable -- something else she’s good at, as a general rule -- but she didn’t see the cut of those eyes, she didn’t see the curve of that smirk. Shizuo can feel a pressure against the inside of his chest just at the thought of it, as if he’s remembering the tolling of some deep-voiced bell of destiny, as if he’s feeling the foretelling of some inescapable doom carried on the bright edge of that voice and the rhythm of mocking applause from across the training field. “I just don’t like him.”

“That’s fine,” Celty says, and lets his hair go to touch his shoulders, to frame him to stillness as she steps back to consider his appearance. Shizuo lifts his head, still carrying a frown at his mouth but willing to offer the rest of his presentation to Celty’s critical eye as she considers her handiwork. “You don’t have to like him any more than he has to like you. All you have to do is tolerate each other for a few days.”

Shizuo snorts. “Just put up with him?” he asks, and starts to lift his hand to his tied-back hair before he catches himself and drops his arm to his side to close his fingers into a fist instead. “Just keep from punching him in his stupid face, more like.”

Celty’s mouth tightens, her lips pressing close together as she struggles to fight back the laugh that would be completely inappropriate as a palace servant, even if she is the prince’s personal maid. “That’s a good start,” she says, and lets Shizuo go to step back and fold her hands in front of her skirt. “You’re ready to go.”

Shizuo takes a breath and huffs it out. It helps, a little; at least his shoulders relax under the crisp lines of the formal suit that makes him feel like nothing so much as a doll dressed up on display for their visitors to gawk at. “Cool,” he says. “Thanks, Celty. Sorry I’m such a pain to deal with.”

Celty’s shoulders come up, giving away the impulse of her smile even if she manages to keep her expression composed enough to hold it back as she ducks her head and drops into a curtsy. “I’m always happy to serve, Your Highness.”

“Thanks,” Shizuo says again. “Really, I mean it. You’re--” and there’s a rap at the door, the sound of knuckles gently tapping the wood to announce a visitor. Shizuo turns to look back, his attention swinging to the door just as the latch turns and the weight slides open, the lack of hesitation speaking to the visitor’s identity even if Shizuo didn’t already know who to expect.

“Brother,” Kasuka says, the word falling with all the flat objectivity of a title. “It’s time to go.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, and glances back to lift a hand in a wave towards Celty. “I’m off then. Wish me luck.”

Celty ducks her head into a nod. “Good luck, Your Highness.”

Shizuo moves towards the door, reaching to take the weight from it and hold it for Kasuka’s exit; but Kasuka stays where he is and tips to look around Shizuo’s shoulders at Celty still standing behind him. “I saw Shinra looking for you downstairs, Celty.”

“Ah,” Celty says, sounding suddenly uncertain. “Thank you.”

Shizuo looks back over his shoulder, frowning at Celty’s abstracted look. “Want me to tell him you’re busy?” Celty looks up to meet his gaze, her eyes widening as her shoulders slump on surprise, and Shizuo frowns harder to underscore his point. “I can go by the medical wing on my way to dinner.”

“Oh,” Celty says; and then she smiles, the expression breaking wide and sincere over her face as she looks at Shizuo. “No thank you. I’m just finishing up here anyway.”

“Alright,” Shizuo says. “As long as you’re sure.”

Celty ducks her head. “I’m sure,” she says, and sounds so certain on the words that Shizuo doesn’t hesitate in turning back to Kasuka in front of him.

“Okay,” he says, and heaves a sigh that helps ease a little of the discomfort across his shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Yes,” Kasuka agrees. “Bye, Celty.” And he’s turning to take the lead out of the door, ducking under Shizuo’s arm so he can pace away down the hallway with the measured stride that always makes him look attentive without being hurried. Shizuo steps out after him, holding the door so it closes softly instead of slamming shut, and then jogs forward to fall into step behind his younger brother.

Quiet falls at once, silence filling the hallway except for the soft sound of their footsteps; it would be stressful with someone else, but Shizuo knows Kasuka well enough to accept the peace as the respite it is, to let his steps go easy and his breathing go slow and comfortable as he follows the other down towards dinner and the stress that will come with it. It’s nice to be able to relax, even if only for a minute, even if he is burdened with the weight of new clothing and polished until he barely recognizes himself in the mirror. Shizuo can catch his breath, and free himself of anticipated unpleasantness, at least for a moment; and then Kasuka is drawing up in front of the dining room doors, and pausing to glance sideways at Shizuo.

“You’ll be polite,” he says, a statement instead of a question. It doesn’t sound so much like a demand as it does an objective truth, like he’s certain of the world forming itself to match his words as soon as he voices them. “With the delegation.”

Shizuo huffs a frustrated sigh. “ _Yes_ ,” he says. “I’ll be as nice as I can be.”

“Good,” Kasuka says, and looks forward again. “You look very princely.”

Shizuo snorts. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious,” Kasuka says, and sounds it. “You look like the heir to the throne.” Shizuo glances sideways at him but Kasuka is still looking straight ahead, his expression so utterly blank Shizuo can gain no traction at all on the other’s emotions. He lifts his chin very slightly as Shizuo looks at him, nodding towards the double weight of the doors in front of them. “It’s time to go.”

Shizuo turns to the doors. He doesn’t feel ready, doesn’t want to step past that smooth-polished entrance and into the obligations and responsibilities that wait on the other side; but he doesn’t really have a choice in this, and the servants standing alongside the entrance are stepping in to pull the handles and urge the weight of the doors open wide for him. Kasuka is standing at his side, waiting for Shizuo to precede him into the hall; and Shizuo takes a breath, and squares his shoulders, and steps forward with all the regal bearing he can muster for himself.

The banquet hall is more than half-full already. The visitors have arrived en masse to fill the space with unfamiliar colors and strange faces; Shizuo can see dozens of eyes looking back at him as the door opens, sideways glances cast over dark shoulders and the lift of haughty chins coming up in judgment as quickly as his title is called out by the herald by the door. His cheeks go warm with self-consciousness, his shoulders tense on stress; but he is who he is, his title is hardly what he’s ashamed of, and none of these people know anything of him but rumors, none of them have the least reason to judge him on anything other than the appearance he’s presenting now. That, at least, is superb; Shizuo has no doubt at all in Celty’s ability to turn him into the prince he’s supposed to be for these kinds of events, and to even attain Kasuka’s approval means she’s done a particularly excellent job this time. So he holds his head high, and keeps his gaze level, and meets those weighing stares with all the self-confidence he has ever had in himself as he steps forward to the sound of Kasuka’s announcement just behind him. His mother and father are at the far side of the room, in far more elegant clothing than his own and holding to such perfect posture they might as well be posing for an artist’s rendering; but there are other guests stepping forward, including the captain of the palace guard Shizuo is reasonably friendly with.

“It’s good to see you, Your Highness,” Kadota says, murmuring the words to soft elegance as he straightens from his bow of greeting. It’s more formal than he usually is with Shizuo, on those events they’ve met previously, but under the circumstances Shizuo just ducks his head in acknowledgment without trying to give any kind of protest. “We were just waiting on your and your brother’s arrival before beginning the banquet.”

“Of course,” Shizuo says. “I believe we should be settled quite shortly.” The words are strange at his lips, they cling to a weight that comes awkwardly to him from the echoes of his private tutors more than his own thought, but at least they pass for calm, they give the illusion of propriety as he steps forward into the room. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Kadota ducks his head. “Not at all,” he says, and that sounds a bit more like himself, closer to the casual tone Shizuo is used to hearing from him on those occasions they’ve met on the training field instead of within the palace walls. “The Numoran delegation only just…” and then the king and queen step forward towards the table, her hand looped gracefully through his arm, and Kadota’s words trail off as the room dissolves into a rustle of sound as everyone within it moves to find their seats.

“Good luck,” he murmurs, ducking his head so the words will go unheard by the crowd, and Shizuo huffs a breath that falls somewhere between stress and acknowledgment as Kadota steps past him to make his way to the end of the table. At least there’s no decision to be made when it comes to seating; the visitors’ rank is as clearly defined as their own, and with one side dedicated to the delegation all Shizuo has to do is take his own place at the other. Kadota is near the end, below the visiting nobles here to fill out the honorary welcome to the visitors; Shizuo is up at the head, just below his parents settling into their seats at the end of the banquet table. Kasuka is approaching from the corner of the room where he’s just collected his betrothed; they make an elegant picture together, as they inevitably do at these kinds of events. Shizuo is left to stride to the end of the table alone, feeling his face heat with self-consciousness at his solitary status and telling himself it’s fine, it doesn’t matter, that his position is equivalent to any of their guests and they have no room at all to judge him. He looks composed, he feels confident; and it’s reflected in his stride, in his posture, in the very tilt of his head as he approaches the head of the table. A servant draws the chair back for him, offering the service without so much as glancing sideways at Shizuo’s approach, and Shizuo sits down, feeling a little bit like he’s cleared some enormous hurdle. Everything is clear from this point on; he can make conversation with his father on one side, or Kasuka on the other, and mostly he’s meant to speak across, to the visiting diplomat who will shortly be seated at the front corner on the other side of the table. The servant across the table from Shizuo slides the weight of the empty chair back, Shizuo takes a breath to compose himself with some suitably neutral conversational topic; and then there’s a voice, “ _Thank_ you,” lilting into a resonance as sharp-edged as it is insincere, and Shizuo’s attention jerks up sharply as all his calm evaporates from him like water against the surface of the sun.

Izaya isn’t looking at the servant drawing the chair back for him, isn’t watching as he touches his fingertips to the table to brace himself to drop elegantly to lounge against the support. His gaze is fixed on Shizuo across from him, his lashes dipping to shadow his eyes and his mouth quirking up on that same lopsided smile that has so scattered Shizuo’s peace for the last hours of preparation. The memory of it was bad enough; confronted with the reality again, Shizuo can feel his blood pressure spike instantly, can feel his temples starting to throb with the beginning of a headache just from seeing the tension at Izaya’s lips and the crinkle of amusement at the corners of his eyes.

“My goodness,” Izaya drawls, lifting one arm to drape over the back of his chair as the servant waiting for him steps away to help the next guest with their chair. “To think I’d be seated across from the heir to the throne himself.” His lashes flutter, his smile pulls wider. “You _do_ clean up well. Someone might even mistake you for human, at a glance.”

Shizuo’s growl of response brings Kasuka’s attention swinging around to him, and draws a _tsk_ of warning from his mother; but he notices neither of them any more than he notices his hand coming up to shove roughly through the neatly combed lines of his hair to dishevel them right back to the wild tangle in which they usually lie. All he’s looking at is Izaya across the table from him, all he’s hearing is the catch of the other’s breath and the spill of laughter from his lips as he leans back in his chair, slouching himself into ostentatious comfort as Shizuo leans in hard over the table as if to close the gap between them by force of will.

It’s going to be a very, very long dinner.


	3. Sincerity

The negotiations are a waste of time.

Shizuo knows that’s not objectively true. There are plenty of topics to be covered, plenty of subjects to be worked out between Numora’s demands and Boscan’s established superiority. If all they manage to do here is prevent a war, it will be well worth the months of planning that have led up to this, much less the few weeks of time they spend hosting the visiting delegation. But when all Shizuo has to do is sit silently in a room filled with diplomats and listen to them offer polite equivalents of  _go fuck yourself_  back and forth, it all seems so pointless he wants to put his fist through a wall just for the sake of giving some immediacy to the truth of what is being said. Everyone is being polite, is smiling and nodding through everything the other side is saying; and then they’ll open their mouths, and their responses come as if they have heard nothing at all, as if all that show of understanding was nothing more than an offhand lie. It drives Shizuo crazy, sets his jaw and strains in his shoulders, until it’s all he can do just to sit still, and silent, and hold his mouth closed around the flood of frustration that so wants to spill forth from him.

Lucky for him, that’s all he really needs to do. The chief Boscan diplomat has lived in the palace since his appointment, has been present for all the years of Shizuo’s youth; Shizuo sometimes thinks Tom might understand his temper better than anyone else, even Celty. He’s been prepping Shizuo for this for the last weeks, running him through their plan and the kingdom’s goals while reiterating that all Shizuo has to do is be visible, all he has to do is attend. It’s a sign of good faith, Tom tells him, to have the heir to the throne present at the negotiations; and it’s important to maintain their own political leverage, with Numora’s prince in attendance as well. So Shizuo goes, and sits silent and stoic at the corner of the table, and he tries to tell himself it’s worth it just to keep the upper hand away from the dark eyes and smirking mouth of Izaya seated across the space from him.

It’s been a long day already. They’ve only just returned from the banquet laid out for lunch, and there are hours still to go before dinner will be served; Shizuo thinks the meals are intended to calm heated tempers and soothe irritated personalities, but in practice the only thing they seem to do is reset all the ground they’ve gained since the last break. The Numoran delegation insists on retreading the same subjects with the start of every interaction, sometimes taking an hour or more to recap everything that was stated previously; and what’s worse they’ll twist the conclusions, drawing them just slightly out of alignment with what was already discussed. It’s exhausting even to watch Tom deal with it, infuriating to hear the calm repetition of the other’s voice as he interrupts with “I believe the details are different, actually” without ever acknowledging the mockery the Numorans are making of the interaction. Shizuo is tense before they even sit down this time, bracing his hands at the arms of the chair under him and gritting his teeth in expectation of the upcoming torture of frustration; and then it’s Izaya who clears his throat, and leans in over the table to reach for the papers laid out before him.

“Shall we review?” he says, his tone perfectly polite and dipping into the edge of charm, like a lullaby hiding the poisonous sting of whatever it is he will be trying to get away with this time. “We were speaking of trade agreements with neighboring countries. There was agreement that Boscan should take the north, and Numora the south, with exclusive rights to materials that travel through either nation; we were in the midst of discussing the issue of Makine, correct?”

Tom clears his throat and lifts a hand to interrupt, ducking his head as he considers his own notes. “Actually--” he starts, and Shizuo can feel his patience give way as if it’s a strap tearing through, as if the experience of his temper coming loose is a physical strain against his chest snapping free under the too-much stress of combined monotony and frustration.

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo growls, punctuating the sound with the smack of his palm against the surface of the table in front of him. Tom breaks off at once; Shizuo can see the other turning in his periphery, can see the involuntary flinch of alarm across his face, but he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t look away from Izaya across the table just lifting his gaze to look at Shizuo through his lashes. “We were  _not_  discussing Makine, we made a decision on that just before lunch.”

“I’m sorry,” Izaya says without sounding at all like he is. “I must have missed that detail in my notes.”

“You  _didn’t_ ,” Shizuo hisses, and he’s pushing his chair back and rising to his feet, his anger seizing control of his body to tip him forwards and in over the span of the table in front of him. “You deliberately left it out so we would waste our time talking about it all over again.”

“You have a remarkably clear idea of what we did and did not discuss,” Izaya says, still in that perfectly level tone. He sounds reasonable, sounds polite; but his eyes are fixed unblinkingly on Shizuo’s, Shizuo would swear he can see the flicker of laughter in the saturated color behind the inky weight of Izaya’s lashes. “And after giving such an excellent imitation of a statue for the last two days. Did you grow tired of playing the figurehead?” His lashes dip, his gaze drops deliberately to the collection of paper in front of Shizuo’s place, to the clean sheets unmarked by any of the ink Shizuo hasn’t been using. “Perhaps you ought to go back to looking threatening and leave negotiations to those who have actually been paying attention.”

Shizuo doesn’t think about reaching out over the table. It’s not a conscious decision to extend his hand, to press his palm hard against Izaya’s shirt and make a fist of the fabric; it just happens, seemingly in the space between one breath and the next, his entire body moving like it’s responding to the demands of his frustration more than his mind. His fingers curl onto silken fabric, his arm flexes hard to drag against it, and Izaya is pulled bodily out of his chair, up against the edge of the table and half-over it with the first pull of Shizuo’s grip. Shizuo doesn’t know if it’s that he’s pulling particularly hard, or if Izaya’s unusually light, or if it’s just that the seething rush of anger in his veins doesn’t care about trivial details like effort or strain. Izaya doesn’t seem to care either; his only concession to the action is to throw out his hand to catch himself against the surface of the table, to brace himself over the scatter of his notes as his smile drags wider in time with Shizuo jerking him in towards his hissing frustration.

“Fuck  _you_ ,” Shizuo spits, growling the words almost directly into Izaya’s face. His heart is racing, his body is straining; he feels like there’s an explosion crackling inside his ribcage, like there’s an impossible tension filling every part of him and tightening his fingers on Izaya’s shirt, tightening his teeth around the grit of his words, tightening at his temples like a vice to shatter apart his rationality. “I don’t care  _who_  you are, I goddamn  _hate_  you.”

“Of course you do,” Izaya says, still grinning and sounding more amused than before even as his calm comes apart over the vicious edge Shizuo always knew was there, like an open blade drawing free to visibility. “You’re  _Boscan_ , I’d hardly expect you to even listen to anything a Numoran said.”

“It’s not your country I dislike,” Shizuo tells him. “It’s  _you_ , your stupid face and your stupid smirk and your stupid  _voice_ , everything you say sounds like a  _lie_.”

“Maybe we should settle this via some other means,” Izaya says, his mouth dragging on that grin and his words coming with startling heat against Shizuo’s mouth. “A duel, perhaps? Since language doesn’t seem to be your preferred mode of communication.”

“Sure,” Shizuo tells him. “I’ll take you on anywhere, I swear, I’ll--” and it’s then that a hand closes on his shoulder, that Tom’s gasped “ _Shizuo_ ” makes it through to his awareness. There’s a force dragging Shizuo back, hands more than just Tom’s bracing against him to pull him away from the grip he has on Izaya’s shirt; for a moment Shizuo keeps his hold, taking Izaya with him as he’s forcibly pulled back. But the Numoran side of the table is on their feet as well, clustering close around Izaya to clutch at his shoulders and urge him back to their side, and Shizuo’s grip slips free of the silky fabric as Izaya is drawn away at the same time he’s being pulled back.

“Your Highness,” Tom is saying, speaking in a hurried undertone obviously intended to be calming and as obviously verging on outright panic. “You must calm down, you must--”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says to Izaya, talking right over Tom’s attempts as he keeps holding Izaya’s stare, keeps glaring at the other even as they’re pulled apart from each other. Izaya isn’t looking away either, even as the rest of the delegation tugs at his shoulders and arms to urge him back and away from the table; he’s just watching Shizuo, his eyes dark and his mouth still quirking up on that lopsided smile, like he’s fighting back a laugh at some joke no one but himself has heard.

“Anytime,” Izaya drawls back, speaking for Shizuo even as his retinue fluster around him like so many alarmed birds. “Name a time and place, I’ll fight you anytime you want and prove Numoran superiority.”

“Go to hell,” Shizuo tells him without hesitation; and that’s all he gets before Tom’s hand grabs at the back of his head and Tom’s push finally sends him stumbling sideways and away from that locked-gaze battle with the other prince. Shizuo hisses, protesting this removal even as he’s urged aside; but he can’t pull free of the dozens of hands pushing him gently but inexorably towards the door, and when he breaks loose enough to turn his head and look back he can’t pick out Izaya from the cluster of alarmed diplomats surging between them.

It doesn’t matter. Even without being able to see it, he would swear he can feel the force of the other’s attention still lingering against him as the door of the room swings shut to close between them.


	4. Overheat

Shizuo is removed from the negotiations, after that.

He wishes he could feel guiltier about that. He knows he  _should_ feel guilty, knows that he ought to feel the weight of his responsibilities and of his own failure to live up to them; but at the present moment all he can muster is relief that he can distance himself from the grating irritation that comes with those endless talks and from the spark of crimson behind the visiting prince’s dark eyes. Shizuo can’t explain why the other flares so much fire into his blood, why it is he can feel his pulse skipping like an itch whenever Izaya so much as glances at him; but it’s true nonetheless that his ill-restrained temper snaps like thread whenever the other is around, and it’s better for his country as much as himself to stay away. He has to see Izaya at breakfast, and dinner, and over the midday meal, if he’s unwary about his timing; but the rest of the time Shizuo can escape to his rooms, or the library, or most likely of all to the training grounds where he can stop thinking about the other entirely, where he can vent some measure of that tension in his body against the weight of a weapon and the resistance of a dummy and buy himself a few short moments of peace before memory or Izaya himself return to strip him of it.

He’s been at it for almost an hour, this afternoon. He busied himself in his rooms this morning, ranting frustration to Celty’s willing ear as he paced out the smooth of the wood-paneled floor; but Celty has duties of her own to attend to, and Shizuo runs out of words long before his nervous energy gives way, and so he changes into less formal clothing while the delegation is lingering over their meal and he goes out to the summer-hot dust of the training grounds to trade in hunger for exertion instead of the meal he knows he ought to eat. The sunlight is a weight against him, it prickles sweat across his shoulderblades before he’s even drawn a practice sword from the barrel of them at the corner of the space; and Shizuo welcomes the discomfort, relishes the effort of motion even before he’s stepped in to slam the weight of the blade against the edge of the newly-repaired dummy. The dummy rattles in its position, his shoulders ache with the impact; and Shizuo fills his lungs with heat that feels like relief, and brings his weapon around to knock loose another unwanted thought from his mind with the force of the impact against the shape.

The heat gets to him, eventually. The sun is brutally hot, it burns at the back of his neck and threatens his grip and his vision with the slick damp of sweat; Shizuo realizes he needs to stop when he loses his balance with a blow, when the recoil is enough to send him stumbling sideways and his vision veers alarmingly along with it. He catches himself after a moment, mostly by dint of bracing his weapon against the ground as a makeshift support, but his head is spinning now that he lets himself feel the heat, and he can’t remember the last time he had a drink of water. He’ll need to sit down and catch his breath before he continues, if he can find the strength for more in himself; and then he turns towards the shade overlapping the railing of the fence, and his shoulders tense all at once.

Izaya has been shockingly quiet. Shizuo wasn’t listening for the sound of any observers, to be sure; but there was no scuff of footsteps, none of that taunting applause offered the first time they met here. He’s just standing in the shade, his arms angled out over the railing like they were that first time and his eyes fixed on Shizuo before him, as calm and level as if he’s been standing there for an hour, as if he’s been there since before Shizuo began.

“Fuck,” Shizuo hisses, growling the word low and more for himself than for Izaya’s hearing; and then he turns towards the fence, pivoting to face the other even as he remains standing in the middle of the training grounds. “What are  _you_  doing here?”

There’s a flicker of tension at Izaya’s mouth, the start of almost-a-smile barely visible before it melts to the heat in the air. “I’d think that was obvious,” he calls back. His voice is just as taunting as it was this morning over their too-long breakfast, but Shizuo is far more overheated than he was then, and even if he scowls in answer he can’t find the energy to muster the hunched shoulders and threatening growl the other’s teasing deserves. “Do you always ask such stupid questions?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the negotiations?”

Izaya’s mouth twists again. “Aren’t you?” Shizuo growls, his answer as obvious as it is incoherent, and Izaya’s lashes dip as his smirk breaks free over his mouth. “I thought I’d keep the representation at the negotiating table equal, in the interests of fairness.”

Shizuo snorts. “As if you care about fairness,” he says, spitting the words with all the disdain he can muster. It’s hard to keep his focus on Izaya’s face -- his vision is hazing to white, his thoughts are spinning -- but he makes the attempt anyway, tightening his jaw on irritation and scowling at his best guess of where the other is. “You were trying to rewrite the treaty yourself all day yesterday.”

Izaya’s shoulder lifts. “Believe what you want,” he says lightly. “You could do that in the shade, though. Are you planning to stand on your self-righteousness until you fall over? I don’t think I’m strong enough to drag a brute like you off the field, even if I wanted to try.”

Shizuo hisses, baring his teeth in frustration; because Izaya is right, and worst of all his vision is spinning too much for him to offer even a token delay in obeying the other’s suggestion. He ducks his head -- it’s easier if he’s not watching Izaya, and the focus ensures he won’t trip over unobstructed ground -- and he starts to come forward, feeling every step jolt up his body like a fresh blow against the dummy behind him. Izaya straightens as Shizuo approaches, unfolding from his lean against the edge of the fence; Shizuo reaches out to catch himself against the railing as he draws near, feeling his whole body tremble with a bone-deep weakness he thinks he’d be more worried about if he weren’t so dizzy.

“Wow,” Izaya’s voice drawls, lilting over put-upon interest that sounds oddly echoey from this close up. “You really were about to go over.” There’s a touch at Shizuo’s forehead, fingers pushing in against the sweat-damp weight of his hair; it takes Shizuo a moment to realize it’s Izaya touching him, and another before he can get his hand up to swat the other’s fingers aside, but Izaya doesn’t so much as hiss at the blow, doesn’t so much as flinch back when Shizuo looks up to glare at him. “You’re sweating still, at least. I guess that means you don’t need to be dragged to the infirmary.” Izaya’s mouth draws up at the corner, his head tips to the side. “Too bad. It’s nice to see at least some part of you is human after all.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says again, tightening his fingers on the railing under his hand until the wood creaks with the force. “Did you just come out here to gloat?”

“Maybe,” Izaya says. “Why did  _you_  come out here?”

“To get away from you,” Shizuo says immediately. “Seriously, what’s so interesting about watching me attack a training dummy?” He rests his practice sword against the railing of the fence so he can free his hand to push up and through his hair. “It’s not like you’ll learn anything about our military tactics from me.”

“No,” Izaya agrees. Shizuo’s vision is clearing a little, now that the sunlight isn’t beating directly on his exposed skin; he can meet the dark of Izaya’s gaze, can see the start of color forming from the shadows that are all his heat-struck vision could make of the other’s eyes before. “We’re trying to prevent war, anyway, aren’t we?” His smile makes the words a lie, even if Shizuo didn’t know them for such immediately. “It’s not very sporting of me to be spying under the circumstances.”

“ _Sporting_ ,” Shizuo scoffs. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word.”

Izaya’s mouth just pulls wider on a smile. He shifts his hands against the railing, tightening his grip to lean back against the support; the motion flexes at his shoulders and pulls the line of his body into a graceful arc. “I’m just interested by the Ogre Prince’s fabled strength. Is everyone here as monstrous as you, or are you just an aberration?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him. It’s hard to muster an edge for the words when he still feels dizzy and flushed, but he does his best, under the circumstances. “I’m just me.”

“Of course,” Izaya agrees, his tone making the words a mockery even before he leans in over Shizuo in front of him. “Just a monster wearing the title of a prince. Are they really planning to give the throne to you?” He purses his lips and  _tsk_ s judgment. “You ought to be kept in a cage, not given a crown.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo tells him. “I’m no more a monster than you are.”

“Oh yes,” Izaya purrs. “Very persuasive, you have  _such_  a way with words.”

Shizuo growls. “I’ll prove it to you on the field any day.”

Izaya’s laugh is brilliant, blistering and overheated as the sunlight beating down on the training ground. “Is that the best you have to offer?” he asks, and lets the railing go as he takes a step back. “Breaking me in half is hardly going to convince me of your humanity.” He lifts a hand to offer a wave as he backs up and out of range without looking away from Shizuo’s face. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to refuse this particular gesture of hospitality, Your Highness.”

Shizuo hisses an exhale past his teeth. “ _Izaya_.”

“I’ll see you later,” Izaya lilts, turning away towards the castle with utter disregard for Shizuo’s seething frustration. “Unless you resume your duel with the heat, in which case I wish the sun the best of luck. Bye!” And he’s ducking around the corner of the guards’ barracks and out of sight before Shizuo can even collect himself enough to figure out whether to yell an insult or a demand after the other.

He doesn’t know whether to blame Izaya or the sun for how frustrated-hot his blood is running in his veins.


	5. Flush

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo spits, pivoting hard on his heel to return back over the distance of his quarters with the same too-fast stride he’s been using for the last five minutes. “I just can’t  _stand_  him.”

Celty clears her throat delicately. She’s been standing alongside the doorway for as long as Shizuo has been pacing over the floor, her hands folded into careful decorum before her, but if her expression is polite there’s a tension in her shoulders that speaks to her stress in the situation far more clearly even than the white-knuckled grip she has on her hands. “It’s only for another few weeks, Your Highness, I’m sure--”

“I don’t want to see him for another  _day_ ,” Shizuo growls, turning well before he reaches the far side of the room to stride back over the distance. His quarters are expansive, large enough that he could indulge in his training right here, if the enormous width of his white-sheeted bed were removed, but he feels the walls like a trap closing in on him, like his abbreviated stride is a sign of claustrophobia in the only space he can be sure of being free of Izaya’s dark stare and sharp-edged smirk. “I want him to go back to where he came from so I never have to see his stupid face ever again.”

“The delegation will be returning as soon as negotiations are concluded,” Celty says, and Shizuo knows that perfectly well himself but it still feels like an infinity, like the peaceful structure of his life is disintegrating to leave nothing but those pinprick irritations of Izaya’s smile in his memory, the sound of that laugh that itches at the back of his thoughts the same way a bug bite would itch at his skin, unpleasant in singularity but unbearable in plural. He ducks his head to shove a restless hand through his hair to rumple the weight of it up off his head and Celty coughs another polite interruption. “If you’d prefer to stay in your quarters for the evening meal--”

“No,” Shizuo says, fast but with less aggression this time, as he twists to walk away towards the window again. “He’d know I was running away from him then, it would just make everything worse.” He catches his hands at the edge of the sill and leans in hard against the support, locking his elbows out to hold himself steady while he turns the weight of his scowl on the greenery of the gardens below and the shapes of people wandering through them to care for or appreciate them equally. “I have to  _beat_  him somehow.”

“That sounds exciting.” It’s a cheerful tone, bright and sparkling with energy; the cadence of it makes Shizuo twist away from the window in a first moment of panic, thinking that maybe even this safe haven has been invaded. But the voice is too light, it lacks the husky edge that Izaya’s has honed, and besides Shizuo knows it anyway, even before his gaze comes into focus on the brilliant white shirt and easy smile of the newcomer. “Who do you have to beat?”

“Shinra,” Shizuo sighs, and turns away from the window entirely to face the arrival of the most chatty of the palace doctors. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to look after your highness,” Shinra says, sweeping into a precisely accurate bow in Shizuo’s general direction; and then he pivots without straightening, turning away from the prince before him to drop to a knee before Celty still standing just in the shadow of the door swinging shut behind Shinra’s entrance. “And of course I couldn’t miss the opportunity to catch a glimpse of my perfect Celty!” He reaches out to clasp her hands in his and cradle the shape of them between his fingers without so much as pausing in the beaming smile he’s turning up towards Celty blinking shock down at him. “You’re as radiant as when I saw you last!”

“Ah,” Celty says. “Thank you. Could you please let go of my hand?” Her tone is dry, far flatter than the gentle one she generally adopts with Shizuo; but there’s a smile at the corner of her lips too, amusement threatening her expression as she lets Shinra go on clutching at her fingers.

“Certainly, my lady,” Shinra says. “Your wish is my command,” as he ducks his head to press a kiss against the back of Celty’s hand. Shizuo scowls but Celty is smiling, even as she tugs her hand away from Shinra’s grasp and around to smack at the side of the other’s head.

“Behave,” she tells him, her clipped tone all out of alignment with the warmth behind her eyes to match the smile still stuck firmly to Shinra’s lips as he rocks back dramatically to sit on the floor. “You’re keeping the prince waiting.”

“Ah yes,” Shinra says, and turns his head to smile up at Shizuo instead. “How are you feeling, Your Highness?”

Shizuo blinks. “What? I’m fine. What are you talking about?”

Shinra rocks forward to rise up on his knees and brush at the front of his shirt as he gets to his feet to stand in front of the door again. “I was told you overworked yourself on the training grounds this afternoon and might be in need of medical attention. Have you been inside for the last while?” He steps forward to where Shizuo is standing without any visible hesitation at approaching the weight of the other’s frown and reaches up to press the back of his hand to the other’s forehead. “What about hydration? Are you feeling unusually warm?”

“I feel fine,” Shizuo says, still with the weight of a frown at his lips. “I came back inside an hour ago and everything’s been perfectly normal.”

“Hmm.” Shinra blinks owlishly up at Shizuo, his attention clearly fixed on the other and just as clearly seeing nothing of the other’s emotional response for how fixed he in on the signs of physical health. “Any dizziness? Blurry vision? Nausea, perhaps?”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo growls, feeling frustration rising in answer to the pointless questions that don’t seem to pay the least attention to his responses. “I was a little dizzy outside but it’s no problem.”

“Yes,” Shinra agrees, still pressing his fingers to Shizuo’s temples like he’s looking for some sign of injury. “You do appear to be in the peak of health. Your recovery time is as remarkable as ever.”

Shizuo feels his shoulders hunch on defensiveness at even this complimentary remark. “It’s fine,” he growls. “I’m just healthy, that’s all.”

“Ha!” Shinra laughs. “I don’t think shrugging off heat exhaustion is something just anyone could do. Then again perhaps it was your strength that let you remain out long enough to suffer from such in the first place. That’s an interesting idea, in its own right. How would you feel about doing some experiments--”

Shizuo reaches to grab at Shinra’s wrist and pull the other’s touch forcibly away from his skin. “ _No experiments_.”

Shinra’s laugh is as unfazed now as it was the first time. “Okay, okay!” he says, and withdraws his touch as Shizuo lets his wrist go. “Well, you have a bill of perfect health from me. Shall I tell the prince you’re feeling well?”

Shizuo blinks. “What?”

“The prince,” Shinra repeats, like maybe Shizuo just didn’t hear him the first time. “He was concerned about your health after seeing you training.”

Shizuo frowns, in confusion this time instead of anger. “Kasuka?” he says. “Kasuka could have just…” and maybe he really is a little bit dizzy after all, because it’s only then that logic overrides his assumptions enough to slot the information Shinra is giving him into the reasonable explanation.

“ _What_ ,” Shizuo blurts in the first rush of shock. “ _Izaya_  sent you?”

“Is that the Numoran prince?” Shinra chirps without so much as a flicker in the cheerful smile he’s turning on Shizuo. “He seemed very worried about you!”

“He wasn’t  _worried_  about me,” Shizuo growls. “He was  _mocking_  me.” His hands are curling into fists at his sides, his shoulders are hunching towards his ears; he can feel his whole body going tense, from the arches of his feet to the headache starting to pound at his temples. “I should go and drag him out to the training field right now, I’ll show him myself just how  _healthy_  I am.”

“You’ll find him at dinner!” Shinra offers. “He said he’d look forward to seeing you there if you were well enough.” His head tips to the side, his mouth purses on consideration. “Though you  _are_  looking rather flushed after all. Perhaps you should stay in this evening to make sure--”

“I’m going,” Shizuo snaps before Shinra has even finished voicing his suggestion, turning away from the other’s attention so he can stride across the room to where Celty is standing. “If he thinks a little heat will let him get away with mocking me he’d better think again.” He starts unfastening the buttons on his shirt, wrenching them free with motions more suited to his temper than to a consideration of the give of the fabric or the strength of the thread; in his periphery Celty flinches, although she doesn’t say anything to try to stop him. Shizuo glances sideways at her, his motion stalling for a moment; and then he huffs an exhale, and ducks his head, and continues with deliberately restrained care.

“Shinra,” Shizuo says, and he can hear the tension on his voice but there’s only so much he can do to control himself, and what restraint he’s fighting for doesn’t extend to his tone in any case. “You’re free to go.”

“I don’t mind staying!” Shinra offers with blithe unconcern. “If Celty--”

“You’re  _dismissed_ ,” Shizuo says, with more force this time, and waits until he hears the huff of Shinra’s resigned exhale before he tips his head to look at Celty. “Could you get the coat with the gold embroidery from my closet for me?”

Celty blinks at him. “Are you sure?” she asks. “It’s just a dinner, you could wear one of your less formal coats and be more comfortable.”

“I’m sure,” Shizuo says, and turns his head to stride away towards the corner of the room, where a full-length mirror is standing out of the way for those vanishingly rare times he cares to use it. “I’m going to show  _his highness_  that I’m in the best health of my life, even without him sending a nurse to look after me.”

“I’m not a nurse,” Shinra puts in from the corner of the room. “Technically he sent a  _doctor_ to…” and then Shizuo turns his head to glare at him, and Shinra trails off with an apologetic laugh layered over with insincerity. “Never mind. See you later, Celty!”

“Bye,” Celty calls back, sounding dismissive without turning around from the closet where she’s currently searching for Shizuo’s coat. Shinra lingers in the doorway looking after her, clearly waiting for some kind of a greater response; but then Shizuo growls in the back of his throat, and Shinra ducks out of the door without turning back to make eye contact again. Shizuo looks back to Celty, his attention to the other given over as quickly as Shinra vanishes from view, and by the time he’s buttoning up the last of the fastenings on his clean silk shirt he’s not thinking about anything except the fit of his clothes in his reflection, and the way the perfectly-tailored jacket fits onto his shoulders and around his chest like he’s putting on the weight of armor.

It would be nice if he could be sure it would shed the edge of Izaya’s laugh as easily as metal would throw off the weight of a blade.


	6. Embellish

Shizuo arrives to dinner before Izaya.

He hadn’t been keeping track of the time. He feels like it’s been hours since he sat down to let Celty tie his hair back and straighten the lines of his coat over his tense-hunched shoulders; every minute dragged into the span of five in his attention, as he scowled at his reflection no matter how well his hair obeyed Celty’s efforts. Maybe it’s just that his attention was on something other than his usual discomfort, that the scratch of the fabric against his neck and the odd weight of the embroidered fabric over his arms were distant enough from where his focus clings that he doesn’t undo Celty’s work as soon as she finishes it, that he is done so much quicker than he expected; or maybe it’s just that he really did have that much time before the meal, that even the usual extended process of preparing for a formal gathering was completed well before time. Shizuo doesn’t think of it until he’s striding up to the entrance to the banquet hall, and realizes how quiet it is within; and then the servants are pulling the doors wide for him, and he has no choice but to step forward even as he takes in the bare handful of people already present.

“Your Highness,” Tom calls, sounding slightly startled but mostly smooth, as elegant in his speech as he is in the bow he makes while balancing his wineglass. “We weren’t expecting to see you this evening.”

“No?” Shizuo says, with more growl on the word than he ought to put there. “Why would that be?” He knows the answer already, can guess at the carrier of assumed bad news even without seeing the uncomfortable flick of Tom’s eyes towards the other guests before him; but Tom recovers from this as quickly as anything else, as he ducks his head into a nod to acknowledge Shizuo’s question without answering it.

“We are of course glad to see you healthy,” a lean man in Numora’s colors standing across from Tom says. His voice is smooth, silky with the implication of things left unstated, but he meets Shizuo’s gaze without flinching back, and Shizuo can appreciate the unflinching self-confidence behind the dark of the other’s eyes. “I hope the result of the negotiations thus far have been meeting with your approval.”

“Ah,” Shizuo says, caught off-guard by this assumption of knowledge he doesn’t have, but Tom lifts his chin and responds as smoothly as if the question were directed at him instead of towards Shizuo.

“We’ve been discussing the shared responsibilities of both kingdoms to the subjects that remain on the land undistributed between our borders,” he says, lifting the glass of wine in his hand barely towards the other diplomat in acknowledgment of the other country. “You have a vested interest in that area yourself, do you not?”

“Unless we align them with one country or another they will go uncared for,” the diplomat says in a level tone that implies reason with such a cold bite of uncaring to it that it prickles Shizuo’s skin. “We ought to clarify the boundary to prevent them getting caught up in the squabbles that inevitably happen along the fringes of power.”

“You’re talking about removing their independence,” Shizuo tells him. “Just for the sake of a line on a map.”

The diplomat’s gaze lifts to him, his attention skims over Shizuo’s entire bearing. For a moment Shizuo can feel the weight of that measuring stare like a touch, as if every aspect of his worth is being held up against some margin of profit and considered against it; for a moment he can feel his shoulders tensing, can feel his jaw tightening on the beginnings of frustration. But then:

“Lines are important,” the diplomat says, turning to face Shizuo entirely, and Shizuo all but huffs an exhale of shock at the recognition in the other’s flat stare. “I would think a member of the royal family would understand that better than anyone. Don’t you want to secure the boundaries of your territory under your control?”

“I don’t care about whether they’re under my control or not,” Shizuo tells him bluntly. “People deserve to live their lives the way they choose to, without interference from either country. It’s not fair to strip away their freedom just because two strangers got together in a palace and splattered some ink on a map.”

The other man’s eyebrow raises, his mouth quirks at the corner. “How very generous of you,” he says, his tone falling somewhere between amused and intrigued. “It’s not often you see such considerations of humanity from one who has so much to lose from them.”

“It’s not a matter of winning or losing,” Shizuo says. “I just want people to be able to be happy, wherever they happen to live. I don’t know how you could think anything else is more important.”

“My goodness,” comes a voice from just over Shizuo’s shoulder, and everything in Shizuo’s body goes tense at once, as if the mere sound of those words is enough to spike his heartbeat into an adrenaline-soaked rush at a single go. “Who would have expected the monster to be so thoughtful to those weaker than himself?”

There’s a murmur of voices from around Shizuo, ducked heads and the soft of “Your Highness,” from the visitors and Tom alike; but Shizuo isn’t watching them, isn’t waiting for the round of polite greetings to conclude. He’s turning sharply, pivoting on his heel to hiss past his teeth in lieu of a more coherent introduction, ready to offer heat spilling past his lips before he’s even laid eyes on Izaya.

Izaya’s watching him before Shizuo looks at him. His eyes look brighter than they’ve seemed before; maybe it’s just the scarlet of the coat he’s wearing, or the glow of the candlelight filling the room, but there’s something glimmering like a shadow behind his lashes as he meets Shizuo’s motion with a smirk. His hair is loose, left free to fall across his forehead and just over his ears; the glossy black of it catches the light, the illumination turning it to a sleek sheen instead of the softer shadows it captured when Shizuo saw him last leaning against the edge of the training field.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” Izaya drawls around the curve of his smirk, the bright behind his eyes making the title a mockery even before he ducks into far more of a bow than he owes Shizuo, given the equivalence of their rank. “You’re looking far better than I expected you to. I wondered if we wouldn’t be gathered around your sickbed to pray for your speedy recovery after this afternoon.”

“I told you I was fine,” Shizuo growls at him. “Stop making it sound like I was at death’s door.”

Izaya’s shoulder comes up into a shrug, his head tips to the side to match it. “Anyone else would have been,” he says without any trace of discomfort at facing the dark of Shizuo’s scowl. “How lucky for your kingdom that your strength comes with such admirable recovery skills. You must be all but immortal on a battlefield. Is that a trade your people are willing to make, humanity in exchange for combat efficacy?”

“Stop saying that,” Shizuo snaps, turning to face Izaya entirely without consideration for the handful of people they have forming an audience. “I’m as human as anyone.”

“Of course you are,” Izaya drawls. “As human as anyone who can shrug off heatstroke and shatter apart training dummies in a single blow can be, anyway.”

“I don’t--” Shizuo starts; and then stops, breaking off the lie of denial before he can even properly form it at his lips, letting it go into a huff of exasperation instead. Izaya is still staring up at him, his head tipped just slightly to the side and his lips curving on that same secret amusement that he always seems to carry just behind the dark of his lashes and the fall of his hair. Shizuo wonders what it is that Izaya is always thinking about, to look so self-satisfied all the time, to be so ready with a taunt or a laugh to anything Shizuo can think to offer; wonders why it is that even hours after driving himself to the brink of cathartic exhaustion the mere sound of Izaya’s voice can pull such instant fury into him, that the mere memory of the other’s laugh can grate such fury down his spine.

“Why are you doing this?” he blurts, the question falling from his lips before he’s properly thought it through. Izaya’s lashes dip, his smile flickers; Shizuo lifts his hand from his side to push through the combed-back smooth of his hair. “What are you getting out of needling me every chance you get? I’d be happy to just leave you alone until this whole thing is over and be done with it.”

There’s a beat of silence. Izaya’s smile is wholly absent from his face; he’s staring at Shizuo like he’s never seen him before, his eyes so dark as to be wholly unreadable and his mouth tense on something Shizuo has never seen in his expression before. Shizuo stares right back, feeling like all the tight-wound strength in him has drained away, like all he has to offer now is exhausted resignation to the inevitable frustration that Izaya will draw from him with the edge of his words, will gust alight with the breath from his lips. All he can do is wait, is stand still for whatever Izaya will throw at him, whatever cutting insult and vicious taunt he will--

“You really are full of surprises,” Izaya says, in a tone Shizuo has never heard from him before, without the tension of that constant smile pulling at his lips. He lifts his hand towards Shizuo, the motion coming so suddenly Shizuo is jerking backwards as if from the edge of a knife before he can focus on the utterly harmless curve of glass in Izaya’s fingers, the dip of a wineglass half-full with liquid the same saturated color as Izaya’s shirt.

“I’m not going to assassinate you with a wineglass,” Izaya says, and when Shizuo looks back up to him the smile is reforming, if only barely, as the faintest tug at the corner of the other’s mouth. “Take it.”

Shizuo frowns at him, distrust creeping into him to match the drag of Izaya’s lips on that curve. “What’s in it?”

Izaya’s eyebrow raises. “Wine, I assume, unless Boscan is accustomed to serving its guests something else.” Shizuo keeps frowning at him, too tense with uncertainty to give in to the obvious statement, and Izaya rolls his eyes and heaves a dramatic sigh as he lifts the glass to his mouth to take an ostentatious sip. Shizuo can see the wet touch his mouth, can see the line of Izaya’s throat work over his swallow just against the collar of his coat. Izaya pulls the glass away and extends it towards Shizuo again, fixing the other with a flat stare as he does so. “I don’t know what you’re so afraid of anyway, you’d probably just shrug off poison the same way you do everything else.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, and reaches to take the glass from Izaya’s hold. “I would not.”

“Well, we won’t be testing that hypothesis today, at least,” Izaya tells him, offering the words as he turns aside to gesture towards one of the servants standing along the wall with a tray of drinks. He chooses one of the darker ones, with the wine within glowing blood-red in the candlelight filling the room, and he’s turning back to Shizuo as quickly as he claims the glass, lifting the curve of it up to offer towards the other in lieu of the smile still absent from his lips. “Cheers.”

Shizuo’s frown deepens even as he extends his own glass towards Izaya’s. “What are we toasting?”

Izaya’s mouth catches at the corner. “You,” he says, and tips his glass sideways to clink gently against the edge of Shizuo’s. “To your humanity, your highness.” Shizuo hesitates, uncertain if this is a mockery too; but Izaya brings his glass to his lips without hesitating, and tips his head back for a swallow, and Shizuo huffs an exhale and follows his example without pushing the point farther. The wine is sweet at his tongue, warm in his throat; he can feel it curling to settle in his stomach with a purr of comfort, like the bracing effect of anger but softer, gentler, easier to bear while still holding to his hard-won coherency.

“So,” Izaya says as Shizuo lowers his glass and brings his gaze back into focus on the other’s face. His smile is back, curving against his lips like it’s come back home; but with the glow of the wine at the back of his tongue Shizuo’s frustration stays at a distance, simmering in the back of his awareness without breaking free to swamp him like it usually does. “Shall we attempt conversation like civilized people, or should we go find you a sword as usual?”

Shizuo’s laugh is startling even to himself, but Izaya’s grin just pulls the wider at his lips against the edge of his wineglass.


	7. Enjoyment

“I can’t believe you really spend your whole day out here,” Izaya calls from the edge of the practice field. “Do you really have nothing better to do with your time?”

“Do  _you_?” Shizuo snaps back, letting the weapon in his grip rattle into another blow against the training dummy in front of him without looking back over his shoulder. Izaya’s presence is becoming an unfortunate regularity; by now it’s not even worth turning to look at him, not when Shizuo knows he’ll just be met with that intolerable smirk and that dark gaze that falls somewhere between mocking flirtation and outright threat at the same time. “You travelled all this way for the  _negotiations_ \--” as he slams another blow against the shape in front of him, as hard as if it were Izaya himself instead of the solid support of a training dummy. “--and now you’re never even in them.”

“I travelled here in the interests of creating friendly relations between my country and yours,” Izaya says with absolute calm. “From that perspective spending time with the Boscan prince is a perfectly effective use of my presence.”

Shizuo scoffs. “We’re not  _friendly_ ,” he insists, and takes another heavy swing at the dummy in front of him. “I just want you out of my country.”

“How convenient for you that that is an inevitability,” Izaya purrs. “Won’t you be so happy when I’m gone? Perhaps making a present tense pest of myself is the best thing I can do to foster goodwill after we leave.”

Shizuo snorts. “Maybe,” he says, and lets the weight of the sword he’s holding dip down to rest against the hardpacked dirt beneath him as he looks back over his shoulder towards the other. Izaya is where he has been since Shizuo began: perched at the edge of the fence, atop the railing instead of behind it, with both knees angling out into the squared-off space and his hands braced alongside him to steady his weight. He looks perfectly comfortable, even though he’s been there for what’s been nearly an hour by now without moving; at least there’s no indication of irritation behind his gaze or catching at his mouth. What tension there is in him is what it always is: the edge of a laugh, the start of amusement most certainly at Shizuo’s expense clinging just to the corner of his lips as if he’s only barely holding it back, as if Shizuo can see the physical representation of that brittle laugh in the angle of the other’s mouth and the set of his jaw. Shizuo grimaces and lifts a hand to push the weight of sweat-damp hair back and off his forehead, to ruffle the fall of it away from the back of his neck. “I’m counting the days until I never have to see you again.”

“You’ll have to see me eventually,” Izaya drawls. “After this treaty is signed our kingdoms will be the best of friends.” His tone makes the words a mockery even if Shizuo didn’t already know how strained their countries’ relations are, one Izaya only underscores by leaning back against his hold on the railing and swinging his legs out in front of him. “We’ll see each other in a formal setting, if nothing else.”

“Fuck that,” Shizuo says succinctly. “I’d rather we go to war and crush you than have that to look forward to.”

“How well-reasoned of you,” Izaya tells him. “I’m sure your subjects are simply breathless with anticipation for the day you take the throne. They must be so  _excited_  for their country to be run by a tyrannical war-mongerer.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo growls, and brings the sword in his grip up to swing against the dummy again. The movement is rushed, lacking any of the form it truly ought to have; it’s just a way to punctuate his words, to add the force that they feel like they’re lacking no matter how hard he bites off the edges against his teeth. “I don’t  _like_  war. I just want to live my life in peace.”

“What a romantic idea,” Izaya tells him. “Do you intend to manage that by having your training dummies made of steel, or…?”

“Shut  _up_ ,” Shizuo snaps, and he’s moving away from the dummy, this time, his body turning to pull in and towards Izaya at the railing in spite of himself. Izaya doesn’t flinch back at Shizuo’s approach any more than he ever has; he just stays where he is, still smirking and swinging his legs idly through the air until Shizuo has to bodily hem him in to stop their motion. Izaya lets his foot go through one more motion to kick hard against Shizuo’s chest, hitting with enough force to blow the other’s breath from his lungs in a rush, but he doesn’t apologize and Shizuo doesn’t bother asking for one. It’s enough to reach out and bracket Izaya’s hands with his own, to turn his face up to scowl at the other looking down from the advantage of height his current position grants him. “I’d be perfectly happy if I just didn’t have you around all the time.”

“Very likely,” Izaya says. He’s not pulling away from Shizuo’s presence; Shizuo wishes he would flinch, just once, would blink or duck his head or show any kind of surrender in any of those graceful lines of his position. He thinks that would be enough to calm him, would be enough to ease away from the pressure of frustration that always seems so close to the surface, no matter how long they manage to walk the tightrope of civility between them. “But that would hardly be any fun, now would it?” And he lifts his hand to flick hard against Shizuo’s forehead, to send the other hissing and stumbling backwards against the flare of pain as he brings a hand up to press against the bruising hurt at his skin. Izaya’s grin pulls wide, breaking open on the angle of his laugh, and then he’s leaning back and away, swinging his legs up and over the edge of the fence to drop lightly on his toes on the other side, with no visible sign of the exertion it must have demanded to balance at the edge of the railing for as long as he has been.

“Is this just  _fun_  for you?” Shizuo demands, throwing the question at the back of Izaya’s shoulders while he’s still pressing his hand to the force of the other’s touch at his skin. “Are you here just because you like driving me crazy?”

Izaya looks back at Shizuo without turning to face the other fully; the angle tips his shoulders down and draws tension against the line of his neck under the collar of his shirt. “What other reason is there?” he asks, sounding perfectly sincere in the question. “If you’re not having a good time there’s no point to anything.” He turns away again and steps out into the sunlight once more, lifting a hand to wave a goodbye without turning to see Shizuo’s reaction. “See you at dinner, Ogre Prince.”

Shizuo doesn’t have a reply to that, or at least not one that comes rapidly enough for him to offer it while Izaya is still in hearing. It’s not until the other has rounded the corner to begin his return towards the palace walls that Shizuo can muster any kind of an answer, and by then the only thing he can really do is huff an exhale and reach to shove his hand through his hair again before he turns to return his practice sword to the barrel it came from.

If his shoulders are more relaxed now than they were before, he doesn’t notice the change.


	8. Opening

Of all the inconveniences that come with the visiting diplomats, Shizuo sometimes thinks the loss of his peaceful breakfast is worst of all.

Dinner has long been a lost cause. It’s too aptly timed for banquets, and balls, and all the other endless political functions that Shizuo dislikes but must attend. His midday meal he can take to himself even now, or can pass on entirely if he is caught up in something else; it’s hardly something to be savoured in any case, not when he’s usually in the middle of training or meetings or practice bouts with the guardsmen. But breakfast has always been his favorite meal, in the quiet early hours of the day while the rest of the palace is still half-asleep, when even the servants bringing pots of tea and trays of toast are moving slow, without the crisp grace they show in the more formal evenings, and it’s hard to lose that, now, to give it over to the stilted conversation and forced smiles that always come with interactions with their visitors.

At least Shizuo knows what to expect, by now. He came down early today, with some vague thought of beating most of the delegation to his meal and absenting himself before any of them braced themselves sufficiently to confront the temper he’s afraid now defines him in their minds more than his actual position. He was successful too, or nearly so; there’s only Tom at the table, looking over his notes from the last days of negotiations with a cooling cup of tea as forgotten at his elbow as the glasses he has tilted up over his head, and their only interaction is a brief moment of eye contact and a smile of acknowledgment before Tom ducks down to return his attention to what he’s doing. Shizuo is left to obtain a glass of milk, and a plate of eggs and a few sugar-crusted muffins still warm from the oven, and to settle himself at the far end of the table with every intention of enjoying his breakfast as long as he can.

He doesn’t actually hear Izaya come in. The door hinges are polished to perfect smoothness, to neither squeak nor grate as the weight of the doors themselves come open; and it’s always easier to slip through them unnoticed without the grand presentation that is made of entrances for dinner events. But the room is utterly silent, except for the rustle of Tom’s papers and the sound of Shizuo’s silverware against his plate; by all rights Shizuo ought to be able to hear anyone walking through the room, ought to be able to pick up the sound even of just another set of lungs working on air. Maybe it’s that last he notices after all, even if Izaya’s footsteps are muffled to perfect softness; or maybe it’s just the sense of someone else’s presence, some shimmer in the air itself that pulls Shizuo’s gaze up from his plate to look straight at Izaya on the other side of the room as if he knew the other was going to be there.

Izaya’s not looking at Shizuo. He has his head ducked down and his attention turned on the delicate porcelain in front of him; Shizuo watches him turn the handle of the teacup balanced on the saucer to the side, angling it out of the way before bracing his fingers against the saucer to raise it just off the support of the table before he reaches for the full pot of tea alongside it. His pour is deliberate, so graceful it’s like watching a dance put on as a performance for a whole cluster of attentive audience members, from the flex of his wrist bracing the cup to the grip of his fingers steadying the handle of the pot. Shizuo stares without thinking of it, without realizing his hands have stilled on the work he was making on the pastry before him; it’s only when Izaya’s lashes flicker to bring his gaze up to meet Shizuo’s that self-consciousness hits, and by then it’s far too late for Shizuo to pretend he was doing anything but staring. Shizuo can feel his face heat, can feel his mouth pull down on a scowl as if to undo his calm consideration of the other’s presence, however brief it may have been, and Izaya’s lips curl up to a grin before he ducks his head to set the teapot back down against the table. Shizuo doesn’t look away -- once caught there’s no point in pretending he wasn’t watching -- but Izaya doesn’t look back up to meet his gaze, just occupies himself with stirring needlessly through his unsugared tea before setting the spoon down against the saucer and coming forward around the edge of the table. Shizuo watches him approach, feeling his shoulders tense with every step Izaya draws nearer, until finally the other is reaching out to set his cup on the table just alongside Shizuo’s elbow before pulling a chair back so he can perch at the very edge of the support. He reaches to draw his saucer back in towards him, lifting it with careful grace from the tablecloth again, and Shizuo’s patience snaps at once to blurt the edge of words into the quiet between them. “Is that all you’re having?”

“Good morning to you too,” Izaya says without even looking up from the surface of his tea. He brings the cup to his lips to take a careful sip; he makes it look like one of Shizuo’s tutors’ demonstrations of proper decorum, like the pinnacle of effortless elegance that Shizuo himself is supposed to embody. It makes Shizuo feel clumsier just watching him. “Is it traditional here to begin your mornings with an argument?”

“It is when I have to see you,” Shizuo tells him, and looks down to scowl at his plate as he pulls one of the muffins in two to lay open the fruit studding the warm inside. “You can’t just have a cup of tea for breakfast.”

“I assure you I can,” Izaya tells him. His voice sounds different from this angle; Shizuo wonders if it’s just because he’s so used to facing the other directly that this sideways conversation feels so odd, or if it’s some residue of sleep still clinging to Izaya’s voice even if the traces of such have been thoroughly polished from his appearance. “I’ll give you a live demonstration right now out of the generosity of my heart.”

Shizuo growls in the back of his throat rather than mustering any more coherent protest. “Why are you so determined to piss me off?”

“Why do you care?” Izaya fires right back, as if he was just waiting for Shizuo to finish speaking before giving back his response. “I’d think you’d be happy to see me collapse of hunger over the negotiating table.” He’s looking at Shizuo through his hair when the other turns to frown at him; Izaya lifts his tea to his lips to take another delicate sip before setting it back down against the porcelain. Even the tiny  _clink_  of the cup against the saucer grates Shizuo’s teeth. “Which is all the more reason to not do it, of course.”

“Breakfast is important,” Shizuo tells him. It’s not that he really cares -- Izaya could drop dead where he sits right now, and good riddance -- but it’s something to argue about, something to fix the hiss of his frustration against to set it free more immediately and less explosively than in the bursts of rage he has to ease against the practice yard’s training dummies. “Tea isn’t enough, you’ll be dizzy by midmorning.”

“It might not be enough for a brute like you,” Izaya says without looking up from where he’s twisting his teacup against his saucer. “It must be a terrible expense keeping a monster like you fed. Or are those only on days you’re occupying yourself destroying all the practice weapons you can lay hand to?”

“At least I practice at all,” Shizuo snaps back. “I don’t sit around looking pretty and relying on my guards to protect me.”

Izaya’s laugh makes Shizuo think of a glass breaking, as if his teacup has tumbled from his grip to shatter against the floor. Shizuo wishes it would, if only for the proof it would give of some measure of human clumsiness instead of that infuriatingly unassailable grace. “Just because I don’t go around showing off my strength every opportunity I get doesn’t mean I couldn’t hold my own against you, for all your muscles.”

Shizuo hisses. “I am not  _showing off_ ,” he says, breaking off another piece of his muffin to eat with frustrated force. “You’re sure happy to talk about how much you could take me on, but I haven’t seen you so much as pick up a practice sword.”

“None of your preferred weapons are to my taste,” Izaya informs him. He’s looking at Shizuo’s plate when the other glares at him, his mouth quirking on what looks irritatingly like a laugh at the destruction Shizuo is causing to his breakfast. “I like to use dexterity to my advantage rather than bludgeoning my opponents to death.”

Shizuo snorts. “What a convenient excuse for you.”

“It’s not an excuse.” Izaya brings his teacup back to his lips for another sip. “I’m sure I can find something I can make do with in your armory.”

That’s enough to break Shizuo’s attention away from his food entirely, to bring his gaze swinging around to fix full on Izaya’s face. Izaya is gazing out over the table without looking at Shizuo at all, appearing to be wholly absorbed in his idle appreciation of the tea at his lips; but there’s a quirk at the corner of his mouth that says he knows the other is watching, even if he’s not looking at him. Shizuo blinks, startled right out of his irritation by shock. “Do you mean--”

“I said anytime,” Izaya says levelly; and then he cuts his gaze sideways to meet Shizuo’s attention in full. “Later this morning, perhaps? When you’re done gorging yourself on whatever sustenance you require?”

Shizuo scowls at him. “I don’t want to beat you just because you’re too hungry to fight.”

Izaya’s laugh bursts out of him in a rush, spilling free from his lips like it’s caught him off-guard. Shizuo can see the corners of his eyes tighten on the sincerity of the amusement. “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” he says, after he’s collected himself back to some measure of composure. “You should be more concerned about  _whether_  you’ll win than  _how_.”

Shizuo huffs. “Of course I’m going to win, one hit would take you out.”

“Yes,” Izaya agrees. “Assuming that blow can land.” He’s still looking at Shizuo as he toys with the edge of his teacup; his mouth is still curving on the beginning of a smile. “I’ve been watching you practice for days, I think I have a sense for your capabilities by now.”

Shizuo’s forehead creases, his mouth tightens on a growl. “Fine,” he says, and looks back to his plate to vent some of his frustration on the pastry still in front of him. “Don’t complain when I destroy you.”

“Of course not,” Izaya purrs, sounding deeply satisfied even in his agreement. “I’ll take whatever you have to give.”

Shizuo looks at him sideways again. “Are you going to go back on that once you’re in the infirmary?”

Izaya snorts a laugh. “No,” he says, bracing his fingers on the handle of his teacup. “Would you like me to sign a treaty to that effect?” Shizuo growls rejection to this idea and Izaya grins and looks away as he lifts his teacup to his lips. “That’s what I thought.”

He goes quiet after that, his focus apparently utterly absorbed by the process of sipping at his tea with infuriating languor, and Shizuo ducks his head and does his best to focus all his attention on working through the breakfast that he, at least, is hardly going to miss on Izaya’s behalf. He does finish everything on his plate, and three glasses of milk besides; but by the time he’s pushing back to finally get up from the table, all Shizuo finds he can remember of the meal is the smell of Izaya’s tea sharp and biting on his tongue.


	9. Anticipated

“You can’t fight with that,” Shizuo says, offering the words with as much flat certainty as if they’re a command.

Izaya glances sideways at him without turning his head. The corner of his mouth twists up; when he speaks Shizuo can hear the laugh lurking just under the sound. “I assure you I can.” He braces his grip against the handle of the fencing foil and turns, flourishing the silver through the air as if Shizuo is meant to be impressed by a few quick twists of his wrist. “Is this something your royal studies have overlooked?”

“No,” Shizuo growls. “I can  _fence_.” He can, technically; the same way he can dance. The thin whip of the foil has never been his preferred weapon. “I thought you wanted a  _duel_ , not a game.”

“It’s not a game if you’re good at it,” Izaya tells him. He’s still swinging the foil through the air, smiling at the motion more than at Shizuo; it’s irritating how fluid he makes the action look, like he’s making a show of the ostensible threat the weapon presents. “Or are you afraid?” He whips the foil out in front of him, pivoting sideways to draw his whole body into line with the blade as he flicks it towards Shizuo; the tip snaps with the motion, swinging past Shizuo’s chest before vibrating to a halt just in front of his heart. Izaya’s head tips, his lips draw up on a smirk.

“You could always surrender right now,” he offers, and reaches out to push the tip of the foil in against Shizuo’s shirtfront.

Shizuo growls in the back of his throat, a rough sound more applicable for his current feelings than anything more articulate would be. “I’m not  _afraid_ ,” he says, and reaches up to grab at the foil and pull it aside. It takes no force at all; the blade is too flexible, it gives way to his grip even before Izaya lets the tension in his wrist go to swing the foil out and away from the playacted threat he was offering. “This isn’t a real fight.”

“And it’s a real practice fight you want?” Izaya suggests. He takes a step backwards, angling himself sideways and away from Shizuo like he’s thinking of making his escape, but when he moves it’s just to flourish the foil again, to gesture wide towards the heavy barrel back at the edge of the training grounds. “By all means, I’d hate to upend your expectations. Come at me with a club for all I care.”

Shizuo grimaces. “I can’t use a real weapon against a  _fencing foil_.”

“And now you’ve insulted fencers over the entire country,” Izaya says calmly. “Including myself.” He draws his shoulders back and steadies his stance as he raises the foil again. “Are you going to back out now?”

“I can’t use a  _sword_ ,” Shizuo protests, feeling the words stick in his chest over the frustration rapidly sweeping up to take over his whole awareness, to urge him to take Izaya exactly at his word. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“To me or to you?” Izaya laughs. “Shouldn’t you be happy to take advantage of me?” He sweeps the foil back in to smack against Shizuo’s arm. “You have the advantage of strength anyway. I should at least be able to choose my own weapon.”

“Ow,” Shizuo says, more for the sake of voicing protest than from the reality of it. Izaya grins and brings the foil sweeping over Shizuo’s head to smack against the side of his cheek. “ _Ow_.” He reaches up to grab at the blade again, scowling at Izaya as the other’s grin breaks into a laugh. “Stop  _hitting_  me.”

“Maybe you should defend yourself,” Izaya suggests. “I’m not particularly interested in fairness. If you want to give up your advantage, I’m happy to trounce you.” He lifts the foil again, swinging it wide like he’s drawing back for another one of those bruising impacts, and Shizuo steps in over the distance between them to grab at Izaya’s wrist and stop the motion.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, hissing the words at the dark of Izaya’s gaze coming up through the shadow of his lashes. “If that’s the only way to get you to stop I’ll  _crush_  you.”

“Good,” Izaya says. “Lead the way, Ogre Prince” and when he jerks his arm sideways Shizuo lets him go, freeing the other at the same time he turns to stride away towards the practice field and the selection of weapons there. Izaya follows at a more sedate pace, his footsteps falling out-of-sync with Shizuo’s stomping treads; the delay gives Shizuo time to cross all the way to the barrel on the far side of the space and drag free one of the two-handed swords before Izaya catches back up to him. He’s not choosy about his selection; the details of blade or hilt are far less important than the weight of it, the solid pull of steel dragging against his strength to demand real effort as he pulls it free. Shizuo hefts it upright, steadying his grip on the hilt; and then he turns with all the slow deliberation of a promise to face back out across the practice field.

Izaya is on the other side. He’s not leaning against the railing as he has on every occasion before now; his feet are on the ground, his shadow falling within the space of the practice arena itself. He has the foil at his side, the narrow line of the blade barely enough to cast a shadow of its own; but he doesn’t look at all alarmed by Shizuo’s selection, there’s none of the wide-eyed fright that Shizuo would have liked to see in the other’s face. He’s just watching, his head tipped to the side and his lips taut on that cut of a grin, and Shizuo can feel nothing but the desire to crush that smirking certainty off the other’s face with the flat of his blade. He steadies his stance, opens his mouth to ask if Izaya is ready, and:

“We’re hardly posing for a portrait, Your Highness,” Izaya calls out across the distance between them. “Are you intending to stand there all day or are you going to try to hit me?” and Shizuo’s temper gives way as instantly as silk parting to the drag of a knife. He’s growling in the depths of his chest, spitting some unformed fury past his lips; and his feet are carrying him forward, his whole body tipping to surge in and over the gap between himself and Izaya before him. There’s some flickering thought of danger, of the damage he could do with the weight of the practice sword in his hands quite aside from its blunted edge; but the frustration in him just sets that thought alight with the satisfied anticipation of broken bones and bruised-dark skin. Shizuo knows he shouldn’t be giving in to this, knows he will crush the possibility of peace with the first impact of his weapon against the foreign prince’s delicate frame; but right now he doesn’t care, he  _can’t_  care, not when everything in him is seething for the satisfaction of violence. He swings the sword back, drawing up for a full-strength blow to land hard against the line of Izaya’s collarbone, to shatter the other’s laughter as certainly as his bones; and Izaya shifts, some barely-there motion to carry him sideways, and Shizuo’s weapon skids through resistanceless air to crash against the ground. There’s a puff of dust, a rattling impact that jolts Shizuo’s teeth, and Izaya tips his head to consider the practice sword now lodged a half-inch in the ground just alongside his foot.

“You’ll have to have better aim than that,” he says; and then his wrist comes up, his foil slides through the air, and Shizuo flinches from the stabbing force of the end just under his ribs. The blow isn’t enough to cut -- the weapon isn’t made for piercing, no matter how much strength is behind it -- but Izaya isn’t holding back on the force, and with the pressure narrowed to just the foiled tip Shizuo can feel it like the other has shoved a fist in against his skin. “My point.”

Shizuo growls and wrenches at the hilt of his sword to free the blade from the earth underfoot. The edge leaves a divot as it comes free, a valley in the dusty surface to speak to the force of the blow; but Shizuo is turning to look at Izaya without sparing a glance at the damage he’s already done. His sword comes up, his grip tightens, and this time he hisses “ _Izaya_ ” as something of a warning and something of a promise as he sweeps the blade around and in front of him. It’s going to knock Izaya off his feet, it’s going to crush through his ribs and blow the air right past his laughing smile; but Izaya just dodges backwards, arching away from the impact with a grace that ought to be impossible for any mortal combatant. He even flicks his foil out as Shizuo’s weapon skims past him, snapping the weight of his own blade to  _crack_  against Shizuo’s with the grating sound of metal on metal.

“Come on,” Izaya drawls. “I thought you were better than that.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo hisses, and he swings his sword back, stepping forward with a weight to his strides that makes them resonate up his spine, that satisfies some of that raw fury in him with the impact of each step up his legs. “I’m going to  _kill_  you.”

Izaya smiles at him. “You can’t kill me if you can’t catch me,” he says, and then he reaches behind himself without looking to brace a hand against the railing Shizuo has been backing him towards. Shizuo takes a breath, ready to call victory if the other steps outside of the space and surrenders; but Izaya just kicks up and off the edge of the fence, moving sideways faster than Shizuo thought anyone could with the added force from the stability. Shizuo twists to try to follow him, his breath rushing from him in a hiss of shock; and the point of Izaya’s foil presses hard against his back, stabbing just between his shoulderblades with a precision as infuriating as it is impressive.

“My point again,” Izaya purrs, and he’s already skipping away as Shizuo turns, darting backwards across the field to put more space between the edge of his smile and the threat of Shizuo’s sword. His teeth flash white, sharp points of light even from across the dusty space between them; Shizuo can see lashes dip over shadow-dark eyes as Izaya drops into a proper fencing stance. “Are you even  _trying_?”

Shizuo’s roar of frustration is as much answer as the full-speed charge he makes towards Izaya’s taunting figure, but Izaya’s laugh -- and Izaya’s casual dodge -- says he already expected as much.


	10. Technicality

Shizuo stays in his room the next morning.

It seems like the safest idea. He’s still seething with barely-restrained temper as every pinpoint bruise on his body aches with every breath he takes to expand his ribcage or shift in his shoulders, and with an evening and a night to collect himself he can recognize, now, how sincerely dangerous yesterday’s duel was. Izaya had laughed, had treated it like it was nothing; but Shizuo knows how heavy that practice sword is, knows how hard he was swinging it, and he’s sure Izaya would collapse like a rag doll as certainly as the reinforced training dummy cracked straight through under Shizuo’s too-much abuse. The fact that he wants to do exactly that is all the more reason to keep his distance, and keep his hands away from any weapons, because Shizuo knows it’s a miracle his temper hasn’t made a killer of him yet and he doesn’t want to give Izaya the satisfaction of pulling him into it now. He skips breakfast entirely, just to avoid the risk of seeing Izaya’s face and the taunting mockery that inevitably comes with his presence, and it’s not until the negotiations should be well underway that he ventures out of his room at all, still in the loose shirt and worn-soft pants he’s been wearing all morning rather than bothering with something more formal. He’s counting on the negotiation occupying the visiting delegation, on having no one but servants to catch him looking so informal; all he needs is a few minutes, just enough time to slip down to the kitchens and get himself a jug of milk and a loaf of bread for sustenance back in his rooms.

It should be easy. The kitchens aren’t far, it’s a walk of only fifteen minutes even by the main paths; taking shortcuts Shizuo can cut straight through the palace, can narrow the duration of his whole expedition down to just a few brief moments. He ought to be able to get there and back in five minutes, ought to be settled comfortably in the privacy of his rooms almost as soon as he leaves; and then he opens a door, and steps out into a corridor, and there Izaya is, leaning on the far railing and lifting his head to smile at Shizuo as if he’s been waiting there for him.

Shizuo stops dead. There’s that usual flare of heat, of irritation too strong in his veins for him to fight it back at the mere sight of Izaya’s face; but there’s shock, too, surprise at seeing the other so unexpectedly, and more a resignation, as if he had known on some level his mission was doomed in the first place. Shizuo can’t explain that last -- there’s no reason he should have expected Izaya to catch him, no reason Izaya should happen to be lingering along Shizuo’s exact path through the expanses of the castle -- but he feels it all the same, as if Izaya is some kind of malevolent spirit who simply manifests himself out of clear air with the accumulation of Shizuo’s frustration about him.

“You,” Shizuo says, grating the word from where he’s still standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here.”

“Ah,” Izaya says, opening his eyes wide in a show of shock. “Your Royal Monstrosity!” He unfolds from the wall, stepping forward to set one foot just in front of the other and then dipping into a curtsy instead of a bow, moving his hands wide to spread imaginary skirts as he drops into acknowledgment low enough for a peasant meeting a king. “Fancy meeting you like this.”

“Get up,” Shizuo growls, and Izaya looks up through his lashes to grin at him before he obeys, straightening with an elegance that reminds Shizuo unavoidably of the bruises aching dully against his chest and between his shoulderblades. “Why are you  _here_?”

“I got bored,” Izaya says immediately, without even hesitating over the reply. He tips his shoulders back and clasps his hands behind himself; when he angles his head to the side it comes with the flash of white teeth on a smile. “Boscan’s not doing a very good job of providing entertainment to its royal guests, you know.”

“You’re here for a peace negotiation,” Shizuo reminds him. “ _Entertainment_  isn’t high on the list of goals.”

“For the diplomats, it’s not,” Izaya allows. “But I’m here as a figurehead. A sign of Numora’s sincere dedication to these efforts.” He tips his head farther to the side; his smile pulls a little wider. “As the heir to the throne you  _really_  ought to be keeping me happy. In the interests of goodwill between our respective nations, you know.”

“I don’t want any  _goodwill_  from you,” Shizuo says. He steps forward out of the doorway, just enough to let the door swing shut behind him. “I wouldn’t want an alliance with you if you offered it to me on a silver platter.”

“You have no taste for politics,” Izaya tells him, as if this is news to Shizuo. “I would have thought by now you’d have learned that sometimes unpleasant sacrifices are necessary for one in your position.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to  _like_  them.” Shizuo takes a step forward across the span of the hallway, crossing the first foot of the distance between himself and Izaya’s languid slouch. “For example, I’d  _like_  nothing so much as crushing your face into the floor, but instead I’m here having a civil conversation.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow. “Is this what passes for Boscan civility?” he asks, lilting the words until they sound very nearly like a sincere question. “You really  _are_  a backwards nation. Or maybe it’s just you that still has the manners of an animal?”

Shizuo hisses and takes another step forward. “Shut  _up_.”

“And yet another example of your  _stunning_  coherency,” Izaya says. “You’re a favorite at parties, I can tell. Was it me beating you yesterday that knocked your grasp of language free entirely?”

Shizuo’s thoughts go blank. For a moment he’s left standing in the middle of the hallway gaping at Izaya, any hope of response swept entirely away from him by the absurdity of the other’s statement.

“ _You_ ,” he finally manages, grating the word past the strain in his throat, the tension rising in his body. “You didn’t  _beat_  me.” And he’s moving again, surging forward over the distance yet left between them to shove into Izaya’s personal space, to reach out and brace a hand against the wall over the other so he can seethe down into Izaya’s upturned gaze, can push the advantage of height and breadth he has over the other. “You  _toyed_  with me, that wasn’t a real fight.”

Izaya doesn’t even blink. Shizuo’s standing all but on top of him, his bare feet bumping the edges of Izaya’s smooth-polished boots, but there’s no flicker of discomfort in his face, no indication at all that he’s feeling the weight of the other’s presence bearing down on him. “Wasn’t it?” he asks. “Is that because I was fighting at an absurd disadvantage, or is it just all fights you lose that you declare to be fake?”

“You didn’t  _fight_  me,” Shizuo snaps. “I’m barely bruised. If we were really fighting I would have killed you.”

“I thought duels were intended to settle that question without all the messy bloodshed,” Izaya drawls. His head is tipped back against the wall so his hair falls back from his forehead; his throat is making a pale curve down to the loose laces at the collar of his shirt. “If it’s blood you want I can see about spilling some of yours, next time. Would that make you admit my victory?”

“You’d never manage it,” Shizuo growls down at him. His arm bracing against the wall is trembling very slightly with the force of the adrenaline in him, as if his whole body is coming alight with the rush of energy crackling so hot through him. “If you came at me with a real sword I’d have you pinned to the ground before you even landed a scratch.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. “Sounds exciting. Shall I consider that an invitation?”

“Absolutely,” Shizuo tells him. “I’ll meet you on the field this afternoon after lunch.”

Izaya’s lashes dip, his lips curve. “I’ll be there.” And he’s moving so suddenly Shizuo is left scowling at empty space for a moment, his reactions dulled by the speed of the other’s actions as Izaya touches a hand against Shizuo’s bracing arm and ducks in and under the barrier of it. Shizuo blinks, startled by this abrupt loss, and turns as fast as he can think to follow; but Izaya’s already out of reach, skipping down the hallway before he pivots on a heel to flash a smirk back at Shizuo still standing alongside the wall. “Don’t keep me waiting!”

“Fuck  _you_ ,” Shizuo says, as the most efficient means of response; but Izaya just laughs, the heat of it crinkling in the corners of his eyes, and turns away to continue down the hallway. Shizuo stares after him for a moment, watching the fluid grace of the other’s steps and the elegant line of his body as he walks; and then Izaya touches his fingers to the wall as an idle point of contact as he turns down the adjourning corridor, and Shizuo looks away to frown as hard at the wall in front of him as if Izaya were still there. He stays there for a long moment, feeling his heart racing in his chest and his blood humming in his veins; and then he turns on his heel and heads back the way he came, his thoughts of breakfast forgotten.

It’s worth spending all morning on the training grounds just to beat Izaya there.


	11. Avoidant

The practice matches don’t stop.

Shizuo keeps intending to cut them off. It’s only a matter of time before there’s an accident, he tells himself, before Izaya misjudges his distance or underestimates Shizuo’s speed and the full weight of a blow shatters through the structure of the other’s bones. Shizuo is playing with fire; as soon as something goes wrong he will have proven himself to be the monster Izaya names him and ruined all hope of a peaceful settlement at one and the same time. But Izaya’s always waiting every time Shizuo has convinced himself again that he really should stop, that he really is done with this, and by the time he’s watching the other walk away Shizuo has agreed to another match without quite knowing how he was manipulated into it.

There’s another aspect to it as well, aside from Izaya’s teasing and Shizuo’s constantly simmering temper, an aspect Shizuo doesn’t want to look at too long, doesn’t want to think about too clearly. It’s true that he’s long used his practices on the training grounds as a form of relief, as a way to ease the constant tension that collects in all the lines of his body by flinging his full strength at the shape of the training dummies and behind the swing of the sword in his grip. There’s some pleasure to that, Shizuo supposes; but in the moment it never feels like anything other than relief, never feels like anything more complex than the hiss of steam escaping a kettle, nothing more enjoyable than an easing of the active discomfort his frustration becomes all too rapidly if unexpressed. He doesn’t look forward to destroying training dummies, doesn’t anticipate the weight of the practice weapon settling into his grip; it’s a necessity, nothing more, just a way to deal with the burden of his own temper and his excessive strength at a single blow.

It’s different, with Izaya. Shizuo thought at first that it was pure dislike, an extension of that grinding irritation he could feel bearing down at his temples like a heatstroke headache with the mere sound of Izaya’s voice from across the distance of the training grounds. But with a weapon in his hands, even the heavy ones that never land a blow on the sinuous grace of Izaya’s form, the strain of irritation unravels into the purr of anticipation, into a heat Shizuo can feel glowing in his veins as if he’s coming alive instead of just venting his usual pent-up anger. Izaya’s smile looks like an invitation when coupled with the narrow line of the fencing foils his own preferences lead him to, and his voice sounds like encouragement when his laughter is broken up by the breathless pant of physical exertion. The duels that feel so much like battles in the planning feel like games in the moment, as if they’re sporting with each other more than trying to crush an opponent out of existence, until Shizuo finds himself smiling as he reaches for one of the heavy practice swords at random, until he can feel the manic edge of a grin on his lips with every swing of the weapon in his grip. And Izaya smiles too, flashing the brilliant edge of that everpresent grin, until Shizuo is sure they must both look purely mad as they chase each other around the span of the training grounds with their mismatched weapons and their opposing attacks and their smiles so similar they might as well be two sides of the same mirror.

It makes him uncomfortable to think about. Shizuo doesn’t like violence, doesn’t enjoy the prospect of causing physical harm to anyone except maybe to Izaya himself; but he can feel happiness rising in him like the tide with the anticipation of every match, and he can’t ignore the way he always feels like he’s glowing during the fights, the way his frustration spikes only at the conclusion of each match and never during the process itself. He  _does_  enjoy fighting Izaya, enjoys the whip of the other’s attacks and the grace of his dodges and the constant sense that he can almost win, if he just reaches a little farther, if he just moves a little faster; and then there’s Izaya, laughing that brilliant laugh as if he’s purely delighted by the constant threat to his physical safety, as if the bite of danger in the air between them is more thrilling than any pleasure offered by the confines of the palace or the hum of a ballroom. Izaya laughs, and Shizuo grins; and somewhere in the back of Shizuo’s mind, he’s unpleasantly aware that anyone who saw them would come to the conclusion that they’re  _friends_ , that they actually  _enjoy_  spending time together, albeit in an usually violent fashion. The idea makes Shizuo the more uncomfortable for every moment he spends thinking of it, for every quiet evening that he spends pacing over the floor of his bedroom and reflecting on the events of the day, and for every invitation Izaya offers that he accepts without thinking, until no invitations are needed at all and it’s a matter of course that they will meet each other at the edge of the training field as soon as the politics of meals are concluded.

It’s the worse, he suspects, because he’s not completely sure that conclusion is even wrong.

He’s thinking about it again this morning, as he takes a few idle swings at the training dummy while he waits for the discussion between the Numoran delegation inside to conclude. Izaya had mentioned the meeting yesterday, at the conclusion of their last match while Shizuo was still too breathless and shaky with exertion to snap back at him; he had made it sound offhand, a casual comment as much framed as a taunt as anything else, and it wasn’t until Shizuo was back in his rooms that he realized it was serving as an explanation for the other’s late arrival this morning. He wants to claim he doesn’t need it, that he would hardly notice Izaya’s absence, that he is more than capable of amusing himself for the span of a few hours; but his movements are slower than usual, his attacks half-hearted, and they do nothing at all to ease the knot of tension that has worked itself into his shoulders while he slept. He finds himself scowling at the dummy in front of him without realizing what he’s doing, finds his hands tightening to fists on the hilt of his practice sword even though his grip is already perfectly stable, and as he continues to pelt the shape with blows his rhythm increases without his intention, the strain in his body rising rather than easing with each rattling blow until he’s not even drawing back for each swing for how much haste he’s applying to his battering attacks.

“Do you intend to beat the thing to dust barehanded?”

The voice is clear, sharp enough that it cuts right through Shizuo’s frustration-hazed distraction and brings his attention jerking sideways and away from the dummy in front of him. The weight of the sword in his grip drags it down at once, his intended blow veering off-course until he stumbles with the effect on his balance; but he’s not looking at the weapon at all, all his attention has swung around to fix on Izaya at the edge of the fence. He’s still wearing the formal clothes he had on inside; as Shizuo blinks at him he’s only just working open the buttons on his embroidery-burdened coat so he can shrug the weight of it down and off his shoulders to be laid over the top rail of the fence. His shirt is laced up to his throat as well; he lifts his head and reaches to tug at the trailing ends to unfasten the bow as he continues to hold Shizuo’s gaze with his usual dark-lashed smirk.

“You’re here,” Shizuo says, offering the obvious because he can’t think of anything better to say.

Izaya’s lashes dip, his smile pulls wider. “Indeed I am,” he says, and he does duck his head, then, letting his hair fall over his face as he unlaces the first half-inch of his collar enough to free himself from the grip of the fabric against his throat. “Your observational skills certainly leave nothing to be desired.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says; but he’s not really thinking about the words, not giving them anything like the force they ought to have to really carry any meaning. He’s let the sword in his hands fall to rest against the ground at his feet; his grip is slack on the handle, barely enough to keep it in his hold at all, and the dummy might as well have ceased to exist the moment Izaya arrived. Shizuo can see Izaya’s fingers slide under the loosened laces at his shirtfront to tug the line of it free of the fabric entirely; the action leaves the top section of the other’s shirt open and the next few inches loosened but for the criss-crossing lines of laces still running from one side to the other. The shadows of Izaya’s collarbones are just visible under the dark pattern of the half-done shirt.

“I hope you haven’t worn yourself out too much while I was occupied,” Izaya says without looking up to meet Shizuo’s lingering gaze. “If you were any easier to beat it wouldn’t be any fun at all.”

“I’m fine,” Shizuo says, but he’s not really paying attention to that answer either; his attention isn’t holding to Izaya’s usual taunts, his temper isn’t rising to meet the grate of the other’s words. “How was your meeting?”

Izaya looks up at that, his gaze skipping to Shizuo’s face as the smile that usually clings to his lips slides off and away. He’s not frowning; his expression is just blank, wiped as instantly clean as if Shizuo’s words were a cue to pull up a mask over any reaction he might have. It’s odd to see Izaya without his smile; odder still to have him look so intent, to have his gaze fixed on Shizuo with as much intensity as he’s offering right now. It makes Shizuo’s skin prickle with discomfort, with the sense that Izaya has stepped back abruptly to hide his own reaction while he focuses absolutely on Shizuo’s own; Shizuo’s mouth pulls down onto a frown in spite of himself, he can feel his forehead creasing with strain to match that hunching his shoulders into an instinctive attempt at protection from the weight of that stare.

“What,” he says, the word crushed to flatness by the anxiety rising in him in answer to Izaya’s attention. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Izaya immediately looks sideways, tipping his head to fix his attention on the fencepost at the corner of the training grounds instead of on Shizuo. Shizuo has to bite his lip to resist the urge to demand that Izaya look at him again.

“It was fine,” Izaya says, in a bland tone as perfectly, deliberately neutral as his expression. “Everything’s going swimmingly, you don’t have anything to worry about at all.”

“Liar,” Shizuo says. “You’re not even trying to be convincing. What’s wrong?”

“Do you care?” Izaya asks, and he’s looking back at Shizuo unprompted, lifting his head to cut his gaze up at the other again. “You couldn’t hold your temper enough to stay in the general negotiations. I’m hardly about to spill the internal discussions of my own countrymen to the crown prince of a rival nation.”

Shizuo’s jaw tightens, his shoulders angle back. “Fine then,” he says, and lifts the sword from his side without looking. “Don’t tell me, I don’t care. I’ll crush you all the same.”

Izaya’s mouth drags up on that familiar smile. “Speaking with your fists instead of your words? I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”

“No,” Shizuo says, and lifts the sword up entirely as he steps back to fall into a more appropriate stance to brace himself. “You shouldn’t have.”

Izaya’s smile widens. “That’s a relief,” he says, and braces a hand on the edge of the fence to steady himself as he steps up and over the railing with easy grace. The selection of weapons is in the corner closest to him; he turns away from Shizuo without hesitation to go and slide free the foil he’s so fond of. “At least there are some things in this godforsaken country that can be counted on.”

“That’s right.” Shizuo takes a step back and away from the training dummy, falling back towards the open space in the middle of the training grounds where their sparring generally begins; Izaya lifts the foil and turns as part of the same motion, flourishing the length of it through the air as he twists to fix Shizuo with his attention again. Shizuo ducks his chin down, feeling a grin starting to tug at the corners of his mouth; he doesn’t try to fight it back. “Like me killing you once and for all.”

“By all means,” Izaya purrs. “Let’s see you try, my ogre prince.”

Shizuo growls in the back of his throat, fury rippling up from the depths of his chest and tightening his grip on his sword; but Izaya just laughs, his amusement breaking clear over the whole of his expression as Shizuo lunges forward to charge into a full-force attack. Izaya sidesteps without missing a beat, skipping away from Shizuo’s blow without apparently trying; but he’s still smiling, his mouth curving on laughter enough to match the gritted-teeth grin Shizuo can feel tight on his own lips.

From this close, Shizuo can see the way this smile makes it to the bright of sincerity in Izaya’s dark eyes.


	12. Clarity

Shizuo can’t stop thinking about the shadow behind Izaya’s eyes.

He forgets it for a time. It’s impossible to think about anything else when he’s in the middle of one of their sparring matches: duels or training or just playing, Shizuo’s not sure anymore what it is they are. But he is sure that they are all-absorbing, that the glint of Izaya’s grin and the shine of sunlight off his narrow blade demand the whole of Shizuo’s attention with no space for so much as a flicker of anything else, and for whatever span of time they chase each other around the training grounds Shizuo isn’t even thinking about the weight of his title or the exertion straining in his limbs. He’s just  _there_ , present in the immediacy of the moment, until it’s always inevitably Izaya who draws back, who lowers the angle of his upraised foil and announces that it’s time to stop. It takes Shizuo long minutes before he can collect himself back into the span of his usual life, as if he’s reaching out to catch the various widespread elements of his existence back within the claustrophobic closeness of his exhausted form; and when he makes his way towards the castle some long-shadowed span of time after Izaya’s own disappearance, he’s too tired to think of anything but the thud of his feet against the ground with every step he takes. He makes his way to the palace, and through the halls, and into the comfort of the hot bath waiting in his quarters; and it’s sometime while he’s lying with his head tipped back against the porcelain behind him that he comes back to himself properly, and finds the dark of Izaya’s stare waiting in his memory.

Shizuo can’t remember ever seeing Izaya look that way before. Amused, certainly; even secretive, as his eyes dance with laughter not yet drawn free of his lips. But all Shizuo has seen before was bright in Izaya’s eyes mismatched with the illusion of sobriety at his mouth; never before has he seen a shadow like he saw today, like the reckless bite of the other’s grin was just a mask to hide whatever darkness he was keeping in the recesses of his own thoughts. The idea grits Shizuo’s teeth and strains in his shoulders the way it always does; he wants to  _know_ , wants to understand, wants to crack open the shadows of Izaya’s secrets and let sunlight flood truth into whatever held-back thoughts the other is holding. Laughter, hatred, amusement and manipulation alike; Shizuo thinks he could stand anything if only he could  _know_ , if only he weren’t so unsure which pieces of Izaya’s facade are the lies and which are truth. Izaya is ever-changing, from the flecks of scarlet that sometimes flicker behind his eyes to the tension at his lips that can turn a smile to a smirk with no measurable change; he moves like water, like wind, like even the force of gravity that Shizuo has crushed to his own use via the application of his well-trained strength is only a suggestion more than a bound of reality. He doesn’t follow the rules, he doesn’t obey the things he ought to; and Shizuo realizes his fingers have curled to a fist against the edge of the bath, that his whole body is tensing with that strange overheated fury that always so seizes him when he thinks of Izaya. He wants to lay Izaya open, wants to fix the other still under the grip of his hands and strip away all the strain of that put-upon smirk and all the edge of that brittle laugh to see what’s really underneath, to make sense of whatever clockwork logic runs so smoothly behind those inscrutable eyes. Every time Shizuo speaks to him there’s something else there, some new depth he hasn’t seen before to go along with all the others he has yet to fully grasp; and today was something else entirely, something he hadn’t even suspected Izaya was capable of expressing.

It haunts him. Shizuo lingers in the bath for nearly the full span of an hour, with his skin flushing with the steamed-in heat and his gaze fixed unseeing on the far wall; but he’s not thinking of the bath, isn’t merely soaking in the comfort of the heat against his bruise-achy muscles. He’s seeing Izaya still, here, as if the other were standing on the other side of the room, as if Izaya were right in front of him and held still by the force of his grip; but even then he can’t give a name to the expression in the other’s face, to the odd softness at the corners of his eyes and the tension in the lines of his face that lingered like a cage even when he flashed the distraction of his usual smile. Shizuo can’t make sense of Izaya’s expression, can’t form out the logic of what could have caused it; it makes him frown, more in concentration than anger for once, and it steals his attention the whole while he’s toweling himself dry and putting on the tidy lines of the formal clothing he’s meant to wear to tonight’s dinner. He does a better job of it than he usually does, it seems; or maybe Celty is as distracted as he, maybe it’s her own abstraction that keeps her usual fretful corrections so minimal today. She doesn’t even attempt to tame his hair into a ponytail, for once; Shizuo is about to step out of the room when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and realizes he hasn’t even run a brush through the damp-tangled waves. That, at least, brings a flood of color to Celty’s cheeks, a blurted “I am  _so_  sorry!” that she couples with a whole array of desperate curtsies, until Shizuo almost thinks of going just as he is just to avoid catching her embarrassment secondhand. He sits through it just the same, coloring with every attempt at reassurance he makes while Celty rains apologies on him as she tugs the brush through the unruly mess of his hair; and then there’s a knock at the door to announce Kasuka’s arrival, and Shizuo says “Come in” with more relief than the reminder of dinner generally brings him.

“Hello,” Kasuka says as he steps in, glancing from Shizuo to Celty with the flat, considering look he always give to everything. Shizuo watches Kasuka look at them; and then his brother clears his throat, and says “Would you two like a moment alone?” and Shizuo realizes how he and Celty’s matching blushes must look, and that his disheveled hair gives quite a different impression to the situation than the actual cause.

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo and Celty say in matching tones of extreme horror. Celty actually takes a half-step back from Shizuo, giving over her attention to smoothing his hair to the far greater need to cut off any possibility of romantic connection between them via a physical action, and Shizuo reaches up to shove at his hair and almost entirely undo whatever progress Celty had made.

Kasuka lifts his shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “Okay,” he says, and steps forward to let the door swing shut behind him. “Are you almost ready to go down to dinner?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, aware that his voice is roughened on the edge of self-consciousness and not able to smooth it back to calm. He turns around to reach for a hair tie so he can finish the half-hearted attempt at smoothing his hair; but Celty reaches past him to lay claim to it herself.

“Just a moment,” she says, dropping into a deliberately formal tone that she never takes with just Shizuo. Her face is still scarlet but her jaw is set, and when she steps forward again it’s to grab at Shizuo’s head and turn him forcibly forward once more. “Please just hold still, your highness.” And she falls to her task with absolute attention, focused so completely on what she’s doing that for a moment there’s complete silence in the room. Kasuka draws a chair away from the wall to sit at the edge of it, looking regal and polished and utterly at home even in the elaborately decorated coat he’s wearing; Shizuo watches him idly, letting his brief flare of embarrassment ease with the calm that Kasuka always seems to bring with his presence. Celty’s hands are steady in his hair, smoothing the waves down and back in spite of her brief panic; it’s easy for Shizuo to relax into it, to let himself go slack against the support of the chair behind him and let the quiet of the room spread out to fill his thoughts as well.

He can’t help the path his attention wanders down. It’s been tied to a single subject all afternoon, wandering around that one fixed point as if marking out a circle around the end of the tether locking him to his train of thought; and in the quiet he just comes right back to it, as if the memory of Izaya’s expression is rising purely unbidden from the peace around him. He can call up the slide of the other’s gaze drifting away from his own, can see the angle of Izaya’s head ducking to hide the other’s expression behind the weight of his hair; and then Kasuka says “What’s wrong?” and Shizuo blinks, and glances at his brother, and realizes that he’s holding the weight of a frown at his own lips.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer, for himself any more than for Kasuka; but he has a question, a flicker of curiosity from some unacknowledged thought, some thread of logic in the back of his mind he hadn’t even known was there. “How are the negotiations with Numora going?”

The room goes perfectly still. This isn’t the calm that filled it before; this is tense, strained on expectation Shizuo can sense even before Celty’s hands go still against his hair. Shizuo’s shoulders strain in spite of himself, the line of his back hunches in protectively even though he doesn’t know what it is he’s trying to defend himself from, doesn’t know what it is he has just asked for. Only Kasuka remains calm, with every line of his body following the same passive elegance he displayed when he first sat down; he doesn’t so much as flicker an eyelash in surprise at the abruptness of Shizuo’s question.

“Not well,” he says, his voice as perfectly level as if he’s describing what they’ll be having as an appetizer before the main course at dinner this evening. “Advisor Tanaka can’t get traction on any of our major points and the discussions have been disintegrating into arguments every day for a week.” He blinks and even that is calm, as unruffled by the words he’s offering as everything else about his position. “Father expects that we’ll issue an official declaration of war as soon as the delegation returns to their own kingdom.”

Shizuo’s skin prickles, his spine runs chill with the honesty of that. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know.”

“There’s nothing you could do,” Kasuka says, even that brutal honesty offered with the same complete calm. “This was a last-ditch attempt to resolve our differences anyway, it’s not a surprise that things turned out this way.”

Shizuo presses his lips together and swallows with deliberate force. “Yeah,” he says. There’s no heat to the word; he feels like his blood is turning to ice with every beat of his heart, like his whole body is chilling itself to stillness instead of flaring with the temper that usually burns so hot within him. “It was kind of inevitable.”

“Is it that terrible?” Celty asks, her voice so soft Shizuo can barely make out the details of the words for her whispered volume. “Are we going to lose?”

Shizuo sets his jaw tight and shakes his head hard enough to send a few waves of hair sliding free of Celty’s hold and toppling over his forehead. “No,” he says, and there’s no question on his tone, no uncertainty in his voice. “Boscan has always had far greater military power. If it’s a war Numora wants, we’ll crush them into submission.”

“And we’re not at war yet,” Kasuka says. Celty hums a soft sound of agreement; there’s the weight of the brush settling back into Shizuo’s hair as she resumes her work with far more gentleness than she used before. “Who knows what could happen in the next few days. We still might be able to sign a treaty with the delegation, if we have a major breakthrough.”

“No,” Shizuo says, and shakes his head in spite of the work Celty is trying to achieve. “We’re going to go to war.” Celty’s strokes pause, Kasuka blinks at him; but Shizuo doesn’t try to explain, and neither of the other two ask how he can be so certain.

Shizuo’s grateful for that. He doesn’t know how to explain the half-anticipation, half-apology that he saw so clear in the visiting prince’s gaze this morning any more than he can explain the knot of pressure in his chest as anything other than misery.


	13. Ignorance

Shizuo sees Izaya as soon as he comes through the doors to the dining hall.

The room is full of people. Celty’s struggles with his hair took longer than expected; in conjunction with the dark turn of the conversation, the effort to get ready more than absorbed whatever extra time Shizuo had for preparation, until he and Kasuka made the walk to dinner through halls silent and empty but for the sound of their own footsteps. The visitors are all within the heavy polished doors, and all the available servants are in the kitchens or waiting to be called as more hands are needed for the multitude of small tasks that are both necessary and unacknowledged at events like this; even Celty ducked away as soon as Shizuo was ready, the sound of her footsteps vanishing around a corner with as much speed as if she’s escaping from Shinra’s only sometimes-welcome advances. Shizuo was left to fall into stride with Kasuka, to practice his royal composure during the length of the walk to the dining room, and to do his best to push aside the weight of his newfound awareness of the precarious political situation from his thoughts.

He’s almost succeeded by the time they arrive. The effort is aided by his own discomfort; Shizuo can feel his shoulders tightening on his usual self-consciousness, on the almost-embarrassment that comes with any situation that will actively acknowledge his position and rank within the kingdom. He has to consciously settle his breathing, has to make a deliberate effort to ease some measure of that instinctive strain from his shoulders, and for the first few moments that’s enough to occupy the whole of his attention as the doors to the hall come open and he steps through to the sound of his own name and title in ringing tones. The room barely stirs, with only a few heads closest to the door turning to glance in Shizuo’s direction; but Shizuo isn’t paying them any more attention than the crowd as a whole is offering him. He’s looking over the audience before him, familiar faces and strange livery alike sliding past his memory like water spilling through open fingers; and then his vision focuses, snapping into place like it’s following the pull of a magnet to the far side of the room, and Shizuo looks straight into the shadows of Izaya’s eyes.

Izaya’s leaning against a column at the far corner of the room, his shoulders slanted back to let his weight tip against the support behind him. The angle makes him look languid, like a cat stretching itself to comfort in a sunbeam, as if he doesn’t feel the weight of the heavy coat over his shoulders as a burden anymore than the cat would feel its fur. The front of his coat is undone in any case, laid open to leave the dark of the shirt beneath to catch the light; it’s a different shirt than the one he wore on the training field, Shizuo thinks, if still in the blood-red shade that the Numorans universally seem to favor. His smile is different too; this is his usual smirk, the tug at the corner of his mouth that seems more an extension of the glimmer behind his lashes than a mask to cover it. When he sees Shizuo watching him he tilts his head to the side, his smile pulling wider as if in invitation to match the dip of his lashes; combined with his angle against the wall he does a very good job of presenting the illusion of helplessness, as if he’s offering himself for whatever means Shizuo wishes to use to vent his frustration upon the other.

Shizuo wants to step in closer. It would be easy, he can feel the certainty in the back of his mind; if he could he would grit his teeth, and hunch his shoulders, and let the heat of his usual irritation carry him across the span of the room to lose himself in the distraction of Izaya’s laugh and the cut of Izaya’s smile for the span of the evening. It would be as much of a relief as their sparring match this afternoon was, would leave him satisfied and heavy with exhaustion by the time he makes his way back upstairs to his own quarters and the support of his bed and familiar-soft sheets; Shizuo can feel the pull like that magnet is settled in his chest, now, or as if there’s an invisible line between him and Izaya, urging him to close that distance as thin as he can make it even if he’s never close enough, even if he knows the nearer he draws the faster Izaya will flinch back. And he wants to give into it, wants to set aside his discomfort with the situation and his awareness of the political ramifications the way he does on the training field, the way he has every time he’s spoken to Izaya since the other’s arrival, wants to break free of the burden of all those restrictions and just  _be_  for a little while.

But.  _War_ , Kasuka had said, and Celty’s hands had gone still with the fear of that; and Shizuo saw it himself even before, had seen the truth of that impending conclusion behind Izaya’s lashes this morning, before he even knew what it was he was seeing. Izaya had tipped his head, and flickered a smile, and had told Shizuo it was nothing; and Shizuo feels the cut of that lie as if it’s drawn an open wound against his chest, as if he’s dripping blood from the ache he feels more keenly than any of the needle-tipped bruises Izaya presses into his flesh. Izaya had known this morning, at least; maybe sooner, maybe all this time, Shizuo doesn’t know, he can’t frame the logic in his head. Izaya had known the truth Shizuo’s own inadequacies have protected him from, at least temporarily; and he had smiled, and held up his foil, and had sparred as if nothing was wrong at all, as if their matches are the game they appear to be instead of a foretelling of conflict to come. Shizuo’s stomach twists, his heart clenches; and he turns away, pivoting to break himself from the dark of Izaya’s gaze on him and stride to the other side of the room without looking where he’s going. His focus is still behind him, his attention as wrapped around Izaya’s fingertips as it ever is; but it’s a repulsion, now, a force urging him away as much as the old one wound him in closer.

Izaya comes after him. Shizuo knew he would, knew it was only a matter of time; but long minutes pass before there’s any sign of the other’s approach, and Shizuo doesn’t dare let himself look back to glimpse Izaya in the thick of the crowd. He obtains a glass of wine instead, a smooth, curving flute of liquid to wet his lips and warm the back of his throat, but he’s paying so little attention to it that it’s not until Kadota asks if it’s good that Shizuo even realizes he’s drinking the red wine he generally avoids. Shizuo makes some sound in answer, vague and noncommittal, but Kadota either pretends to understand or makes sense of the true distraction that underlies the response and doesn’t ask again. Shizuo is grateful to that, as grateful as he is to the intervention of Kasuka’s betrothed Ruri stepping forward to engage Kadota in politely meaningless conversation; it gives him the freedom to stand in what passes for a circle of interaction and stare blankly into the distance while he waits for Izaya’s arrival.

“What a coincidence,” a voice purrs from over Shizuo’s shoulder. Kadota is still speaking, his voice low and rumbling as he answers some delicate question Ruri has just posed; but Shizuo can hear the interruption with as much clarity as if the room were dead silent, as if Izaya had come up to him in the middle of an empty corridor and offered the words. “I never expected to run into the crown prince of Boscan here at a formal dinner event. And you’re  _just_  the monster I’m looking for.”

Shizuo glances back over his shoulder without shifting his feet. Izaya is standing just behind him, his weight rocked back to make an elegant curve of his position and his chin lifted as if to draw attention to the tug of his smile against his lips. He looks utterly unfazed by Shizuo deliberately ignoring him, like maybe he hasn’t noticed at all; but he’s standing closer than he usually does, inching into the gap he usually leaves around the other until his elbow bumps Shizuo’s arm as he lifts his own wineglass to his lips for a sip.

“I’ve been looking to do some fencing training while I’m travelling,” he says as he emerges from his delicate mouthful of wine. “Just to keep from getting out of the habit, you know. Unfortunately training dummies just aren’t the same as a moving target.” He tips his chin down to give Shizuo a deliberately slow look up and down. “You look like you could take a hit or two. Or a couple hundred, if it came to it.”

“Go away,” Shizuo tells him, still without turning his feet to face Izaya more fully. He can feel his shoulders drawing tight under his coat, can feel the start of tension rising up his spine like the tide coming in over a coastline. “I don’t want to talk to you, Izaya.”

“I wouldn’t really call what you do  _talking_  anyway,” Izaya says. His gaze is sliding down over Shizuo again rather than holding the weight of the other’s stare; his smile is still curving at his lips, his fingers are sliding against the stem of his wineglass. “That would imply some level of higher-level communication, while you seem to be limited to grunts and the flat edge of a sword.” His gaze jumps back up to catch and hold Shizuo’s, his lips pull wider. “Though I’d be happy to indulge you in that tomorrow morning, of course.”

Shizuo doesn’t know what does it. Maybe it’s the tone of Izaya’s voice; light, teasing, as if this is banter instead of the last crumbling edge of the temporary alliance between their countries. Maybe it’s the casual assumption under his words, that makes the statement no more a question than an observation on the heat of the day would be. Maybe it’s just Izaya’s smile, the way it is always Izaya’s smile, or Izaya’s eyes, or just Izaya himself, that his very presence is enough to unravel all Shizuo’s composure and fray his nerves to snapping rage that he can no more control than he can hold back the dawn breaking over the horizon.

“ _No_ ,” he says; and he does turn, then, pivoting on his heel to twist in and face Izaya, to offer the full weight of his shoulders to loom over the other. Izaya leans back fractionally, his smile slipping towards a frown as Shizuo’s elbow barely misses crushing against the line of his nose; but Shizuo isn’t pausing to give even Izaya’s quick tongue a chance to fit words in alongside his own speech. “No more games, Izaya, I’m done playing with you.”

Izaya’s brows draw together, his forehead creases as his lips pull down to fix that frown into place against his mouth. He stares at Shizuo for a moment, his expression shadowed on unhappiness; and then he lifts his shoulder and tips his head to the side, shrugging away this rejection as if it’s irrelevant to his personal existence. “Suit yourself. Did you get tired of handing victory over to me with every match? If you’d like I could offer some hands-on training to help--”

“ _I got tired of you_ ,” Shizuo growls, and he takes a step forward even though there’s nowhere to go, even though the action presses him right up and against the span of Izaya’s chest. Izaya’s eyes go wide, his head tips back as much to avoid taking the force of Shizuo’s chin against the bridge of his nose as to maintain the fixed eye contact between them. He looks startled, shocked out of anger or amusement alike; and Shizuo glares down into the close-up sincerity of that expression, of the only thing he can be sure Izaya is really feeling, and he keeps talking. “Do you want to keep playing these stupid war games until the day we actually meet on the battlefield? If you just want to try to kill each other why don’t you give it a couple of weeks and we can figure out who the real winner is once and for all?”

Izaya blinks. Shizuo can see the weight of his lashes catch on each other from how close they are, can see the shift of the other’s mouth as he presses his lips together before swallowing and essaying a flicker of a smile. “I thought the ogre prince would be happy to have an excuse to rain down destruction on his enemies.”

“No,” Shizuo says again; colder, this time, more distant, as if he’s drawing away from Izaya even as he’s pressing so near he can feel the rhythm of the other’s heartbeat echoing his own. “Anyone who knows me could tell you that I hate violence.”

Izaya stares at him for a moment, his jaw set and gaze unflinching. “I see,” he says finally, his voice as level as Shizuo has ever heard it; and he takes a step backwards, deliberately, drawing his weight back and away from Shizuo with as much grace as if he’s holding a foil in his grip instead of a wineglass, as if he’s pulling into the opening flourish of an attack. “It would seem I don’t know you at all, your highness.” He ducks his head into a bow, the precise depth accorded to one royal from another; and then he’s turning away without looking back to Shizuo’s gaze, stepping away into the crowd without any hesitation at all. Shizuo is left looking after him for a moment, his heart pounding and his skin flushed over the ice that seems to be running through his veins in place of blood; and then he turns back, to where Kasuka has joined Ruri and Kadota’s conversation, and he does his best to lose track of where Izaya is in the crowd.

It’s hours until dinner is concluded, and Shizuo doesn’t look at Izaya again; but there’s no moment when he couldn’t point a straight line to the other, even across the haze of people and conversation between them.


	14. Abstracted

Shizuo doesn’t see Izaya again.

It’s a relief when he pulls himself free of the demands of the political debates framed as an elegant dinner; he can feel Izaya’s presence behind him like a constant tug trying to drag his head to turn, trying to pull his gaze over his shoulder to glance at the other. He has to fight to keep from turning, has to struggle with himself to keep from seeking out another glimpse of Izaya’s crimson shirt, of the dark of his hair and the slant of his shoulders; it’s only the possibility that Izaya might be watching, might catch him looking, that keeps Shizuo’s gaze fixed on the floor, or the far wall, or the door, increasingly, simply in consideration of those being the safest points to gaze at without any risk of catching a pair of dark eyes staring back at him. Shizuo ducks free as soon as he possibly can, extricating himself from some idle conversation with an excuse he doesn’t think about and barely manages to give voice to; but Kasuka understands, he thinks, or maybe it’s just that Shizuo’s anxiety is so close to the surface as to be obvious to Kadota and even Ruri as well, that they let him free with polite nods and well-wishes he no more hears than he did his own excuse. Shizuo slips out of the room with no more farewell than that, and certainly without looking back over his shoulder; and even then it’s not until he’s shut and locked the bedroom door behind him that he shudders an exhale and takes what feels like the first deep breath he’s managed in hours.

He doesn’t go to the training field the next day. Better to stay in his room, to wait out the long hours of the day with the ostensible distraction of a book and the reality of pacing back and forth through the space that feels more narrow with every pass. But Shizuo’s attention isn’t on his surroundings; it’s elsewhere, wandering through the halls of the castle as he won’t let his feet carry him, lingering in the shadows of the training grounds that he doesn’t dare even glance at through the glass of his window for fear of seeing a familiar form snapping a narrow silver weapon through the air without anyone to resist his flashing blows. He doesn’t know what he would do, if he saw Izaya even at such a distance, even with the hours of determination to hold him back; there’s a part of him that shudders with the idea that he might go anyway, even knowing that he shouldn’t, even knowing that he will be walking into the most savage taunting Izaya has to offer to him for going back on his statement. It’s hard enough to stay away as he tells himself that Izaya’s not there, that there will be no one waiting in the shadows for his arrival; he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to resist the lure that confirmation of the other’s presence would offer. So he doesn’t look, and he doesn’t go, even if he can’t manage more than a sentence in his book before he tosses it aside and gets back up to pace like a chained animal through the narrow space of his room.

His meals are brought to him. That’s Celty’s doing, thanks to a request Shizuo offers that is more distracted than abrupt; breakfast and lunch and even dinner, the first day of Shizuo’s self-imposed exile. They arrive hot, maybe the warmer for Celty’s fretting concern over Shizuo’s unprecedented behavior, the worry she won’t give voice to for consideration of his feelings; but Shizuo barely tastes them, however delicious he’s sure the food is, he can hardly sit still for the duration of time it takes him to eat even at top speed. He’s pacing again before the plates have been cleared away, with so much force to his steps he’s sure he’s wearing a groove in the smooth stone underfoot; but he can’t stop himself, because if he stops he might put a name to the ache against the inside of his chest, might come to the realization that he’s  _lonely_ , and he can’t bear to face that, even if it is the truth.

He can’t stay away forever. He would if he could, he thinks; even if it made a hermit of him, hiding in his room alone seems a far better option than the alternative of facing Izaya’s dark eyes and dangerous smile. But the negotiations, such as they are, are finally grinding to an end; and Shizuo would have to be suffering from far worse than a fit of pique to stay away from the farewell banquet that serves as the last grand display of Boscan wealth and power on behalf of their visitors. Kasuka is attending, Shizuo’s parents are attending; and he is attending, as much a part of the display to be put on as any of the rest of it. Celty arrives with an entirely new outfit for him to wear: pants tailored to fit him like a second skin, and boots so shining with polish they can’t be worn so far as a step out-of-doors, and a coat weighed down with embroidery like the threads are winding a cage around Shizuo’s body to tie him to the demands of his role. Even the shirt he’ll wear beneath the weight of the coat is new, softer than any he’s ever touched before and so thin it’s almost translucent; it’s all finery that even he has never had occasion to wear before, a final grand display for their visitors as if to make a peacock of himself as much as the rest of the Boscan representatives.

Shizuo doesn’t complain. The clothes fit well, and they’re more comfortable than they look; and even if they weren’t, he would duck his head and submit to this, as he so rarely submits to the duties of his role. He can dodge attending the negotiations, can spend more of his days on the practice field with his sword and the training dummies than learning the steps of elegant dances inside the palace walls; but this is one duty he can’t escape, and there’s no point in trying. He wonders if he’ll feel like this whenever his own inevitable marriage is decided, when the benefits of a political alliance outweigh his own preferences and entrap him in a relationship he wants no more than he wants to step up to the throne that is his by chance of birthright and his own bad luck; the idea is an unpleasant one, even more so than it has been when he’s considered it before. He can feel it chill in his veins and settle like ice in the pit of his stomach; and it locks his lips to silence, keeps his head bowed and his body still while Celty gathers his shoulder-length hair to tie back against his much-embroidered collar.

“There,” she says finally, speaking in a bright, cheerful tone that almost manages to pass for sincere instead of verging on the edge of panic as she sets the brush down and steps back from behind Shizuo. “You’re all ready.”

Shizuo looks up. He barely recognizes himself in the mirror. The coat he’s wearing is darker than usual, a saturated blue that looks nearly black even in the bright lighting within the enclosed space of his room; it brings out the shadows in his eyes and the gold highlights in his hair, smoothed back over his head with such exacting precision that Shizuo can see no trace at all of the natural wave he knows the golden locks carry. His shirt is the color of foam against his throat, pure as snow against the dark of his coat; and everything fits him precisely, each piece cut and angled to hug every shift of his body and bring out the dip of his waist and the breadth of his shoulders at once. He looks regal, royal, as if he’s finally been steered around to the position that has always fit him so ill before; he can see the hours of work, of tailors and seamstresses and Celty’s own dedicated attention, all the details that have gone into making him look the prince he so rarely feels himself to be. He stares at himself in the mirror, fixing the weight of that dark gaze with his full attention; and then he straightens his shoulders, and lifts his head, and lets the burden of his responsibilities settle into place against him.

“Thanks, Celty,” he says, and lets his gaze come up to meet Celty’s wide-eyed attention in their reflection. “This is great.” He gets to his feet -- carefully, to keep from straining at the coat or ruffling his hair -- and then he turns, coming around the edge of the chair to reach out and press a hand to the support of Celty’s shoulder. Celty lifts her hand to press atop his and brace his hold in place; Shizuo can see her head lift to consider him, can see her mouth shift on the tension of words left unsaid, of uncertainties she’s not giving voice to. Shizuo meets her gaze for a moment, just long enough to flash a smile he hopes is reassuring even if he can’t make it reach his eyes.

“I’ll be back,” he says, comfort to himself as much as to Celty; and then he draws his hand away, and steps forward to the door to go down and confront Izaya.

He thinks about it the whole way to the dining hall. Kasuka has spent the evening with Ruri and will be arriving somewhat later to join the rest of the group; and their parents are certainly there already, as they have been in place to greet each guest individually upon arrival. It’s just Shizuo alone, now, pacing down the hallways with only the sound of his footsteps for company; and finally, freed of the bounds of his self-imposed exile, there’s no way to avoid the certainty of what will be waiting for him. He’s avoided it for days, has stayed away from the training grounds that will always make him think of laughter, now, he thinks, and has ducked out of his responsibilities at the semi-formal dinners that have become a regularity; but it’s time, now, to finally confront Izaya one last time. His heart is beating faster in his chest, his steps coming a little faster against the floor; adrenaline, Shizuo tells himself, because it’s an easier word than  _anticipation_ , better to tell himself he’s nervous than that there’s a flicker of excitement in him, some part of him that’s looking forward to seeing Izaya again the way he might look forward to the first sip of wine after a long diet of clean water. The taste might be bitter, might be heady and overwhelming in a way he has become unaccustomed to, a way he can hardly bear to even imagine; but there’s a draw there, too, a desire to fill himself with the intoxication of the other’s presence for one last evening, even if it leaves him the more miserable the next day. Shizuo’s breathing harder as he draws up to the doors to the dining hall, his hands clenched at his sides to keep them from trembling as he pauses to wait for his entrance; and then the doors sweep wide, and he strides through, keeping his head lifted and his shoulders back in a perfect display of regality even as his gaze sweeps wide over the hall of guests.

The room is full already. There are dozens more visitors than usual; the full Numoran delegation is already present, as well as all the diplomats from the Boscan side who have been involved in the failed proceedings. The minor nobles have been invited, to grant the illusion of a party to the good-riddance farewell they all know this to be; Shizuo can pick out Kadota from the deeper bows ducking to greet him, can see Tom in the back of the hallway bending over his wineglass as well. There’s his mother in a knot of young ladies, and his father with a group of older gentlemen near the center of the room; even the one whip-lean negotiator from Numora that Shizuo spoke with briefly, glowing brilliant in a coat as stark white as the silk-thin shirt pressing close against Shizuo’s skin. Shizuo glances around the room, skimming over the familiar faces to hold to the strange ones, the dark eyes and fake smiles that come with the Numoran delegation; but even after looking through the whole space, he doesn’t see anyone ducking his head into the nod suitable from one prince to another. Everyone is offering more, or less, in the sole case of his parents; and as the crowd begins to rise once more Shizuo pauses, looking around the room again with more care as his heartbeat skips faster in his chest. There’s a whole array of people, Boscans and Numorans in light and dark coats alike, short and tall and gruff and polite all mingled together over the promise of food and drink; but no one to drag Shizuo’s attention to a single face, no one who pulls at his focus as if dragging a line tangled into his thoughts. Shizuo looks once, and again; and a third time, slowly, staring at every face just to be certain he’s not missing anyone from the crowd or in the shadows of the room. But none of the polite smiles have an edge to them, none of the dark eyes carry a knowing glimmer; even the few brunets that have turned away from Shizuo are too short, or too broad, or too old to be the one he’s looking for.

“Evening,” a voice offers from alongside Shizuo’s arm, and Shizuo startles and begins to turn; but it’s not the right voice, it’s a lower tone with a slower drawl, and when he blinks himself into attention it’s Kadota standing there meeting his gaze. Kadota’s easy smile flickers as he looks at Shizuo, his forehead creases on concern; when he rocks back on his heels it’s with a frown starting at his lips and attention behind his eyes. “Are you feeling well, Your Highness?”  
Shizuo stares at Kadota for a moment. He can feel the weight of his coat on his shoulders, can feel the soft of his shirt against his skin. His hair is smoothed across his scalp and gathered at the nape of his neck; his boots are bright and solid on his feet, as certain in their weight as his title is against Kadota’s tongue. His stomach is sinking, his heart feels like it’s gone into freefall on its way towards the floor; but he has a job to do, and duties to perform, and however much he may want to turn and retreat the way he came, may want to tear through the entirety of the palace until he finds who he’s looking for, he can’t leave as soon as he’s arrived. Even with war on the horizon, even with animosity hanging heavy in the air filling the room, Shizuo can’t turn his back on this banquet, can’t depart as soon as the guests have greeted him. The insult would be unforgivable, would lay the full repercussions of the inevitable war solidly on his own shoulders; Shizuo is held in this room as surely as if the doors swinging shut behind him are bars stronger than iron to trap him here.

Shizuo shuts his eyes for a moment, enough to block out the brilliance of the room, enough to close himself to his own existence for the span of a heartbeat; just long enough to take a breath, to sigh an exhale long enough to let all his anticipation go, to let all his hope go to cold ashes in his chest.

“Yes,” he says, and he opens his eyes to meet Kadota’s steady gaze. “I’m fine.”

Shizuo isn’t a good enough liar to think his statement is at all convincing, but at least his rank keeps Kadota from calling him out on it.


	15. Flickering

Izaya never comes to dinner.

Shizuo gives up looking for him after the first hour. He tells himself he’s done as soon as he’s scanned the room that first time, as soon as he ducks his head to make the futile attempt to lose himself in conversation while his thoughts run wild through the palace as if imagination can find the person he’s thinking of; but he still jerks to attention every time the door opens, adrenaline running too hot for him to restrain even long enough to wait for the herald’s announcement of a newcomer. But it’s never who he’s looking for, never Izaya’s flashing smile and lilting laugh, and by the time dinner is well underway Shizuo has stopped hoping entirely, has stopped even listening to the herald calling out the names of the latest arrivals to the banquet.

Shizuo doesn’t know why Izaya’s not there. By rights he ought to have an obligation to attend as much as Shizuo does; maybe he’s ill, or perhaps he’s finally returning Shizuo’s avoidance in kind. Maybe he left early, maybe he’s already returning back over the long miles that span the distance between Numora and Boscan; maybe the palace grounds have been hollow with his absence all this time, and Shizuo didn’t even realize. The idea pulls at the corners of Shizuo’s mouth and weights at his shoulders, stripping his attention from anything around him no matter how hard he tries to force a smile and make easy conversation; until finally it’s Kasuka who tells him to go to bed, who declares that Shizuo has done enough and should stop forcing himself. Shizuo wonders how obvious his effort is, if Kasuka can call it out so bluntly; but he’s not so stubborn as to stay, not when he has such explicit permission to leave. He makes his farewells, answering bows in kind and meeting curtseys with the general compliments he’s expected to offer to the noblewomen whose faces he pays no more attention to than to their dresses; and then he’s free, only hesitating at the doorway to offer a last deliberate smile and wave to the gathered guests as the herald announces his departure. The audience bows him out, a roomful of people Shizuo can’t see as anything other than a field of opulent clothing and politic smiles; and then the doors are swinging shut, and Shizuo can finally let his shoulders slump, can finally let the tension in his chest break free in a sigh of resignation and relief at once.

He unbuttons his coat on his way back to his rooms. There’s no one to see him but the everpresent servants, and they’ve all known him for years, many since he was a boy and had even less control over his tantrums than he does now; none of them are going to judge him for easing into comfort before he’s back in his rooms, none of them will take personal offense at his desire to just be himself for a short while. Several smile, a few offer greetings; but Shizuo is too tired to engage in any kind of conversation, even the casual chatter that comes with those who know him as himself more than his title, so he just offers a duck of the head by way of greeting and farewell at once, and carries on down the hall towards his quarters.

It’s dark within, quiet and still in a way that promises the peace Shizuo craves, the silence that his aching head needs more even than he needs the comfort of Kasuka’s understanding or Celty’s sympathy. Shizuo lets the door swing shut behind him without fumbling to light the candles from the heap of embers in the fireplace; it’s enough, at first, to just stand inside the space that is no one’s but his own, that is silent enough to allow the whole range of his thoughts to spread out without fear of judgment. He tips his head back against the door and shuts his eyes for a moment of calm; when he shrugs his coat off his shoulders it feels like freedom as it slides free, as the weight of the fabric slips down his arms and unweights his shoulders from the burden it offers. Shizuo tosses the coat to the side with enough force to land it over the back of the chair, and opens his eyes to make sure it landed safely; and then he forgets it, turning his attention instead to the weight of his boots as he drops to a knee so he can work the laces free.

He’ll be fine, he tells himself as he tugs at the fastenings holding the boots to his feet, as he unwinds the laces that burden his steps as thoroughly as this negotiation has burdened his daily existence. He feels unbalanced, unhappy and strained and uncomfortable even in his own mind, even with his own thoughts; but this will pass, he’s sure. He’s in his own home, in his personal quarters; and tomorrow the Numoran delegation will be gone, and he’ll have no expectations to live up to, no rumors to dedicate himself to confirming or denying either one. He can return to his beloved training grounds, can lose himself to the rhythm of blows falling against a static opponent; there will be no more taunts, no more cutting laughter, no more of that dark-eyed stare that so haunts his calm and tangles into his memories. It will be a change, to be sure; but a good one, Shizuo tells himself, it will be a loss that will let him return to the calm normalcy of his existence, that will let him fit himself back into the life he is used to living, into the sense of himself he usually carries. He’s lost that, over the last few weeks, has come unravelled from the careful construction of identity he has borne over all the years of his life; but he can return to it, he’ll find his way back to himself.

It’ll be for the best, he tells himself, as he steps free of his boots and leaves them forgotten in front of the door as he moves towards the soft of his bed; he’ll return to himself, return to his life, and soon everything that the prince of Numora has brought with him will be nothing but a memory, easily ignored and more easily forgotten. All Shizuo has to do is wait, is exert patience for the span of a few hours, a few days, maybe a few weeks, and he can return to everything just as it was. Shizuo throws himself against the downy soft of the sheets, into the comfort of the bed that has been a perfect familiarity for the last decade of his life; and he presses his face down against the soft, and shuts his eyes, and reaches for the comfort of sleep without even bothering stripping out of his shirt or pants.

He wakes with a jolt. It’s disorienting, to come awake so quickly; he was in the middle of a dream, he thinks, lost in some dark haze of gold and crimson whose meaning is stripped by his sudden awakening but whose effect lingers in heavy eyelids, in dizzy thoughts. He’s still face-down on his bed, still wearing the clothes he wore to the banquet; the only thing that has changed is that he’s half-buried himself under the weight of a pillow, and that the fading light of evening outside has dimmed to the heavy weight of pure night. The moon hasn’t yet risen, or maybe it’s already set; all Shizuo is sure of it that it’s velvet-dark in his room, so heavy with shadow he can barely make out the snowy white of his shirt when he looks down, can barely see the difference between his dark pants and the pale of his bedsheets. And he’s awake, entirely so, his heart racing and his breath catching on adrenaline he can’t explain, he can’t guess at--and there’s a knock at the door, soft but heavy enough to be unmistakeable, and Shizuo’s head jerks around with as much speed as if the sound is an open threat.

He doesn’t hesitate in his movement. There’s no real thought to it at all; he’s just acting, toppling sideways and over the edge of his bed as part of the same motion to bring him stumbling forward and reaching out for the weight of the closed door. His foot catches on an obstacle -- the weight of his boots left carelessly in the middle of the floor -- and Shizuo trips and nearly faceplants into the weight of the door instead of opening it. He manages to get a hand up against the surface in front of him to stop his precipitous descent, stalling his motion even as his breath catches with the surge of panic in his sleep-clumsy body, and he takes a moment, this time, to collect himself and his balance before he actually reaches for the handle to pull the door open.

The light hits his eyes first. It’s not much illumination, just the golden glow of a single candleflame flickering in a holder; but Shizuo is still hovering on the cusp of sleep, and his night-darkened eyes flinch back from the bright. He draws back from the half-open door, hissing as he squints against the glow; and then there’s an inhale, the catch of a breath at someone else’s lips, and Shizuo’s eyes are opening wide, and he’s turning back as the first rush of shocked recognition overrides the instinct pulling away from that illumination.

Izaya’s gazing at him when Shizuo blinks his vision into focus on the other’s features. He doesn’t look panicked, or tired, or even particularly alarmed by Shizuo’s obviously confused state; he’s just looking, just fixing Shizuo with that gaze stripped of anything but shadows by the dim of the hall around them. Shizuo gapes at him for a moment, speech stolen from his lips by the shock of seeing someone he thought long since absent from his life; or maybe it’s just the surprise of seeing Izaya again, of being confronted with the reality of the existence Shizuo has been so consciously avoiding for the last handful of days. Izaya’s hair looks softer in the dim lighting, as if it’s made of that velvet-soft shadow all around them, his skin is pale like it’s trying to make up for the moon still lingering below the horizon. Shizuo isn’t sure if his lashes were always so long, if his mouth was always so soft on that curve, or if it’s that Shizuo’s just never had the chance to pay attention before, has never let himself calm down enough to really notice the details of the beauty in front of him.

“Shizuo,” Izaya says, and his voice is the same even if the shape of his lips over the word is different, is catching and holding Shizuo’s attention as if there’s a line between them. “Evening.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says. His tone sounds strange, breathless like he’s been running, like they’re paused in the middle of one of their sparring matches instead of murmuring late at night in a quiet corridor. “What...what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Izaya says without any hesitation at all. “As it’s the middle of the night I assumed your bedchamber was the best place to start a search.”

Shizuo blinks. “How did you know where my  _room_  was?” he asks; but he doesn’t really care about the answer, and he doesn’t bother waiting for one before pushing on to the next. “What do you want?”

Izaya doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at Shizuo, gazing at the other with his head angled very slightly to the side and his eyes dark and unreadable. He’s not smiling; there’s no expression at his lips at all, neither the strain of that teasing smirk nor the weight of a frown dragging at the corners of his mouth. He’s just gazing, staring at Shizuo like he intends to paint a portrait of him, like he’s trying to memorize the details of the other’s presence before him. Shizuo can feel his skin prickle, can feel sensation shiver down his spine as Izaya’s gaze slides down over him, wandering away from his face and over the clinging thin of his fine shirt wrinkled with the imprint of sleep against the fabric. The quiet spreads out around them like a pool, like the surface of a pond going still again after the ripple of a stone thrown into it, and Shizuo can feel his shoulders tense, can feel his whole body tighten on some kind of anticipation, some sort of tension thrumming in the air like Izaya’s offering that in place of the easy banter he usually presents.

“What,” Shizuo starts, trying to break the uncomfortable quiet; but his voice cracks, his words melt from his lips as his breath gives way, and he has to take a breath before he can make the attempt again. “What the hell do you--”

“Your hair’s different,” Izaya says, very suddenly, his words falling right atop Shizuo’s to cut off the other’s speech with as much force as a blow.

Shizuo blinks at him, feeling as off-balance from this interruption as he did falling over his shoes before. “What?”

“Your hair,” Izaya says; and then he takes a step in, and lifts his hand, and for a moment his fingers are dragging through Shizuo’s hair, the elegant shift of his hand is rumpling the smooth-combed lines of the other’s tied-back hair out of place. Shizuo’s breath rushes out of him, his lungs emptying themselves so absolutely that the exhale comes out as an audible huff; but Izaya doesn’t look at his wide-eyed shock, he just keeps his gaze fixed on the other’s hair as he ruffles the locks loose of the restraint Celty brushed them into hours hence. Shizuo can’t think, can’t focus on anything: the heat of Izaya’s touch at his scalp, the drag of the other’s fingers through his hair, the casual grace of the motion as Izaya pulls the waves of his hair loose of their tie to fall around his face. All he can do is stare, feeling a little like the air has vanished from the hallway, like the world has paused in its turning; and then Izaya’s hand slides down and against the back of his neck, his fingers tugging the loosened tie free of the few locks it’s still holding, and Izaya says “There,” so softly Shizuo can better piece the word from the shift of the other’s lips than he can hear it. “Better.”

They both stay very still for a moment. Izaya’s fingers are lingering at the back of Shizuo’s neck like he’s forgotten to pull his hand back, as if his motion has stalled half-complete; his lashes are dipped down, Shizuo can’t see what he’s looking at behind the curtain the shadowed length makes. But he can see the part of Izaya’s lips, can feel the heat of the other’s breathing against his mouth; and inside the silent space of his mind, like an echo of the ringing that seems to be filling his ears, there’s a thought too clear to be mistaken, a whisper of an idea as if Izaya is murmuring it against the shell of Shizuo’s ear directly.

“What do you want,” Shizuo says, and his voice is strange and strained but he can’t ease it, not when he can feel the tension in his shoulders urging him forward, not when he can feel his fingers curling on the impulse to reach up, to press and sink his touch into the impossible shadow of Izaya’s hair in front of him. He presses his lips together and swallows hard in a futile attempt to ease the knot in his throat. He can’t lift his gaze away from Izaya’s mouth. “Why are you here, Izaya.”

Shizuo can hear the sound of Izaya’s inhale like thunder in his ears, as if it’s a shout instead of a barely-audible catch of breath. “We’re leaving.”

Shizuo struggles through another inhale. “Tonight?”

Izaya ducks his head. “Yes,” he says; and then he looks up, his gaze meets Shizuo’s, and Shizuo doesn’t ask why now, doesn’t ask why they can’t wait for the morning, doesn’t ask why Izaya is here at his bedroom door in the middle of a moonless night, because none of that is important when his blood is flaring alive in his veins, when his heart is skipping on such a frantic rhythm in his chest. Izaya’s eyes drift down Shizuo’s face, his focus wandering across the other’s features as if he’s trailing his fingers over Shizuo’s skin as smoothly as his touch invaded the neat lines of the other’s hair; and Shizuo’s hand is coming up, he can feel it, his whole body is tensing on expectation as he reaches out, as his fingers stretch to close against the back of Izaya’s neck, to pin the other where he stands so Shizuo can step in against him, so Shizuo can duck his head in over him and--and Shizuo chokes on the force of the desperate inhale he takes, and throws his hand sideways instead to grab and clutch at the edge of the doorway just for the sake of something to hold to that’s not Izaya’s hair. Izaya’s gaze jumps back up to Shizuo’s, his eyes widen in surprise, and Shizuo huffs an exhale and clings to the doorframe as if he’s likely to collapse without its support.

“Fine,” he chokes out, sounding like he’s growling, feeling like he’s suffocating. “Bye then.”

Izaya’s lashes flicker over his eyes, his chin tips down for a moment. Shizuo can see the tug of tension at the corner of the other’s mouth, like a smile but not, amusement stripped of all pleasure. “Yes,” he says, and then his hand is sliding away, and he’s stepping back, and when he lifts his gaze to meet Shizuo’s again there’s nothing to see but that flawless mask steady and certain once more. “This is farewell.” He holds the candle in his hand out to the side and dips into a bow, precise and perfectly calibrated to their positions; he meets Shizuo’s gaze for a moment as he straightens, for the briefest flicker of connection between their eyes, but Shizuo can’t see anything but shadows behind Izaya’s lashes, and then Izaya is turning away to pace down the corridor on whisper-soft feet. Shizuo is left to stand in the doorway of his bedroom, his fingers cramping on the doorframe and his heart speeding in his chest until Izaya is out of sight, until he can shut the door and shut his eyes and breathe past the awareness of what he almost did, of the impulse to act that he can still feel trembling cooling adrenaline through the whole of his body.

It’s over an hour until the moon finally rises, but Shizuo is still wide awake to see the silver glow of it spill through the glass of his window and over the floor of his silent room.


	16. Necessary

The meetings don’t end with the departure of the Numoran delegation.

Shizuo didn’t really think they would. There’s always something to be discussed, always some kind of political endeavor currently in progress or some response to a neighboring kingdom’s actions that must be decided, and while the king does technically wield power enough to simply make a decision without considering the word of his advisors, Shizuo’s father has never been that kind of a ruler. It’s something Shizuo admires, even in the midst of meetings that are more often than not a struggle for him to sit through and harder still to keep track of; he hopes that in the distant future he has the presence of mind to be half as rational about it as his father. But that’s later, hopefully  _much_  later; and right now, the fact of it is that preparations for war begin as soon as Shizuo wakes from disturbed dreams of dark eyes and smirking lips.

He’s present at all of these. His temper is a liability in any kind of diplomatic situation, Shizuo knows that as well as anyone without needing to have it spelled out for him directly; but for internal meetings, where everyone is familiar with him and his occasional outbursts, the benefit of giving the crown prince exposure to the situation far outweighs whatever toes he may step on with a flare of temper. Shizuo appreciates the fact, even if he doesn’t enjoy the burden of the meetings; and so when he comes into the room that feels more like a cage with every passing day he doesn’t say anything about it, and when he sits down it’s with his head ducked and his hands folded, and he does his absolute best to hold his temper on an iron leash while he focuses on as much of the conversation as he is able to follow.

It’s far easier than he expected it to be. It’s strange to have this proof of his own personal growth as soon as Izaya’s overwhelming presence is stripped away; even when advisors offer patently foolish advice, or interrupt each other in a way that grits Shizuo’s teeth on frustration, he finds it a simple matter to fight back the anger in his chest, to reach for the glass in front of him and swallow back a mouthful of liquid instead of offering the snapping words to break apart the implicit tension into the relief of overt aggression. Tom stops watching him sidelong as if Shizuo is a bomb that could go off at any moment, his father gives him a nod and a brief smile at the conclusion of every meeting; and at his elbow Kasuka remains wholly occupied in the conversation happening around the rest of the table instead of in watching his brother’s latest rage with calm consideration. It’s exactly what Shizuo wants, exactly what he’s always dreamed of achieving, of being just a quiet part of the audience instead of a risk everyone is forced to tiptoe around; and he knows he ought to be grateful, on some level, thankful to Izaya for so grating on his nerves that in comparison everything else seems trivial.

It would be easier to appreciate, Shizuo thinks, if it didn’t come with such a sense of emptiness inside of his chest.

“We received an official announcement of war yesterday evening,” the king is saying now, reiterating the by now well-known fact from the head of the table with his hands folded in front of him and his voice ringing clear through the space of the hall. “I’ll dispatch a messenger to Numora under a flag of truce to carry our answer to them in kind, unless there are any final objections to that.” He barely pauses for the resounding silence in the room to give the answer they have all discussed for days, now, have worked themselves into from every possible stance and determined as the only solution. “Which removes us from the field of diplomacy and into that of strategy.” He lifts a hand to gesture one of the squires standing against the edge of the wall forward. “Kida, if you would.” The boy comes forward -- he’s young and shaky with responsibility, his eyes wide and hands trembling so badly on the maps he’s carrying he nearly drops them on the floor before he can collect himself.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, catching the scrolls at some risk of sending himself toppling headfirst into the side of the king’s chair instead of the maps. “Sorry, sorry.”

The king’s mouth tugs on the very edge of a smile, visible even from the other end of the table where Shizuo is seated, but he doesn’t laugh, just reaches to take the scrolls gravely from the boy’s outstretched hands. “Thank you,” he says, and the squire drops into a bow as deep as if he intends to fold himself in half before he retreats back to his position against the wall next to the rest of the wide-eyed squires. The king clears his throat, the sound enough to break apart the weight of not-quite laughter bearing down on the rest of the table, and chooses one of the maps from the scrolls just handed to him to unroll before he stands and leans in over the edge of the table to lay out the weight of the image across the surface before him.

“This gives us the best estimation of the borders between Numora and Boscan as they stand at present,” he says. “Including the latest adjustments as a result of our failed attempt at negotiation” as he touches a fingertip to ink so fresh it looks like it might smear under the weight of his hand. “We’ll need to begin deployments of the army within the week, to hold down the front line for Numora’s initial attack if nothing else; I expect four major forts against the edge of the front lines.” He touches against the edge of the border, outlining the span of the dark line with each point of contact. “Thoughts?”

“What about this location?” one of the advisors asks, leaning far forward from his slouching position in the chair at the edge of the table so he can reach to point at one of the areas indicated by the king’s touch. “This is on lower ground with minimal cover. It’ll be a stretch to hold onto it if a full attack hits here, and it’s the first place I would attack if I were the enemy.”

“You’re not wrong,” the king says; and then he draws his hand back, tapping to indicate the circle just behind the border from the area he indicated. “The problem is this.”

“The town,” Shizuo blurts from the end of the table. Every head turns, every pair of eyes swings around to fix on him; he can feel his cheeks heat, can feel his shoulders hunch under the force of all that attention, but:

“That’s right,” his father says. “What about the town?”

Shizuo glances up. The whole table is looking at him, it’s true; but there’s none of the judgment he so often sees at balls or in other discussions, none of the tense jaws of frustration or the set brows of disappointment. Most of those expressions are surprised, blinking at him as if they’ve never properly seen him before; and there’s a few, Tom and his father, mostly, who have something like anticipation behind their eyes, as if Shizuo is finally living up to the role he was meant to play. Shizuo glances from face to face, feeling like he’s caught in a spotlight and not sure how he feels about that; and then he looks sideways and sees Kasuka, his head lifted so he can gaze up at Shizuo with utter neutrality on his face. There’s none of the weight of expectation that Shizuo is seeing in a few of those faces, none of the shock so clear in the rest; Kasuka’s just waiting, his patience as infinite as Shizuo’s is scarce, and with that focus on him Shizuo can manage a breath, and can let it out, and can ground himself back to reality enough to speak.

“It’s too close to the border,” he says, bringing his focus back to the map instead of up to meet all those waiting eyes. “The nearest high ground is a good mile farther into the borderlands. If we came all the way forward to that point we’d have too much gap around us.” He can picture Izaya’s smirking laughter, can remember the way Izaya danced around him as if Shizuo wasn’t even there, maneuvering behind the other the more easily for how slowly Shizuo’s own heavy weapon forced him to move. “They could come around behind us and wipe out the village.”

There’s a heavy sigh from the first advisor, the one who called out the positioning in the first place. “It  _is_  just a village,” he says. There’s no real bite to the words; they’re just a statement, a flat declaration of truth stripped of any personal involvement. “It may make for a better strategy to let it fall.”

“No,” the king says, and the attention swings back up to him, leaving Shizuo feeling a little like he’s just passed through some kind of gauntlet and not entirely sure if he succeeded or failed. “The most important thing that we can retain in this conflict is the goodwill of our people.” He flattens his hand down atop the map as if to cradle the outline of the village in question against the cage of his fingers. “We’ll offer our protection to them as much as we can.”

“Holding the outpost there will require more men,” the advisor says, more as if he’s stating a fact than truly arguing. “And we’ll need additional support. One commander won’t be sufficient to maintain communication with the whole of the infantry.”

“No,” the king agrees. “They won’t be.” He slides his hand back and ducks his head over the map. “I had intended to send you there as the primary leader, Denis, assuming you are up to the task.”

“I’m yours to send where you will,” the advisor says, as gruff in his acceptance as in his disagreement. “Who else?”

“I thought someone less tested,” the king says, still looking down at the map. “He would defer to you, under the circumstances, of course, but it would be a good opportunity to provide some field experience that might not be available otherwise.”

“Ah,” Denis says. It’s a thoughtful sound, a huff of air as if he’s turning something over in his mind. “That’s an interesting notion.”

The king glances at him, his mouth turning up on the start of a smile. “But not a bad one.”

“That remains to be seen,” Denis allows. “He has the makings of a decent soldier, though. Certainly not likely to turn coward in a moment of crisis.”

Shizuo feels himself frowning, feels his shoulders starting to hunch on the beginnings of frustration at this conversation apparently wholly understandable to Denis and the king and entirely inscrutable to himself. When he speaks the words are sharp, pulled from him more on his temper than on calm clarity of thought. “Who are you talkingabout?”

Denis lifts his head first. His gaze is clear, his attention steady; it’s as Shizuo blinks to look at him that he has the first shiver of premonition, the first flicker that maybe -- but then the king lifts his head, and Tom does too, and then the whole table is turning to look at Shizuo again, and Shizuo can feel his frustration drain away as fast as the clarity of epiphany breaks over him.

“Don’t be silly,” Kasuka says, his voice still soft but crystal-clear in the silence of the room. “They’re talking about you, of course.”

In the first rush of surprise, the only thing Shizuo can think about is how strange it is to feel needed.


	17. Confrontation

The fight is a mess.

There wasn’t supposed to be much of it. There  _isn’t_  much of it, as far as Shizuo can tell; at least not enough to overwhelm the Boscan forces, not enough to more than surge against them like a wave breaking against the unshifting wall of a cliff-face. But it’s hot, in spite of the chill of autumn starting in the air and the breeze that ruffles Shizuo’s hair every time he strips off his helmet, and the adrenaline and energy of the battle is enough to plaster his hair down against the back of his neck and drip a line of sweat between his shoulderblades. He’s sweltering under the weight of his armor, within the metal that picks up scored-in marks of attempted attacks with every forward rush of the infantry they’ve been rebuffing all day. Shizuo’s arms are shaking, his shoulders aching; he wants to stop, wants to sit down right where he is and collapse into exhaustion, to capitulate to the weight and the humidity thick in the air and just  _stop_ , give up and give in and let everything halt for even a moment of peace. But the attacks keep coming, little surges of motion too minor to be a proper threat and too frequent to be ignored, just large enough that they must be dealt with, that they draw Shizuo’s attention and pull Shizuo’s body into instinctive, relentless motion, until he feels sometimes like he’s spent longer jogging up and down the line of soldiers than he has actually fighting.

The sun moves slow. Sometimes five minutes seem to span an hour; sometimes the whole of the morning vanishes while Shizuo isn’t paying attention, with chunks of his memory lost to the tang of blood in the air and the weight of sweat from bodies upright and fallen alike. It would be enough to turn his stomach, in other circumstances; if he were at home, Shizuo thinks, or if he had any time at all to really think about the present situation. But those same mosquito-bite attacks that keep his exhausted muscles flexing in continued action hold his thoughts as well, demand his attention to this minute, this second, this heartbeat of time; and by the time nightfall brings a decrease in the rate of attacks exhaustion takes over from adrenaline and pulls Shizuo into the dark of unconsciousness before he’s even wrestled his boots off, sometimes. That leaves him with blisters the next day, with feet stinging and aching as much as the rest of him; but it all vanishes when there’s another onslaught, all the weight of the present lifting for a brief moment of clarity, like the sun glimpsed between clouds, and Shizuo loses himself again until the next gap.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Days, he thinks, maybe weeks; every day is like the next, every evening bleeds into the next morning with nothing but a span of long unconsciousness to separate them. Shizuo feels like he’s lived here, sometimes, as if maybe this is all his life has ever been; maybe he was born here, or maybe he’s died, maybe this is the form of hell he earned for himself with all those bursts of temper through the span of his life. It’s not so bad, he thinks, sometimes, in the paper-thin gap between lying down and sleeping; at least this way he doesn’t have to worry about losing control, doesn’t have to worry about who he might hurt when his patience frays through and the sword pressing blistered grooves into his palms swings up and against his attacker. It’s not peace, it’s not the happiness he has always wanted; but it’s better than the pressure, at least, and at least here he knows he’s doing some kind of good for his country.

It’s on the seventh day, or the fourth week, or the second month, that the honor guard arrives.

They advance differently than the usual. The regular attacks are quick things, emerging from the shadows of the trees and charging forward over the span of cleared meadow that has churned itself to bloody mud over the last span of time they have been fighting here. There will be a burst of movement, a shout of warning; and then a few minutes, at most, before the clatter of swords and the shout of voices carry proof of combat to those along the rest of the front line. It’s the shout that cues Shizuo to race towards the violence, and even then he doesn’t always arrive before it’s concluded; more often than not the Numorans will be retreating already, escaping with a handful of wounded and occasionally leaving behind the body of someone struck down in the combat. There are more Numoran deaths than Boscan ones, Shizuo thinks; but every Boscan has a face he knows, at least by glimpsing if nothing else, and he carries the count of those far closer than the anonymity the Numoran uniforms grant to strangers’ faces. There’s no way to separate the Numorans one from another in the heat of battle, and Shizuo doesn’t try to; until one day, when there’s the sound of trumpets heralding some new development, and the whole of the front line goes silent to watch the cluster of calvary emerge from the treeline.

They look far grander than the foot soldiers Shizuo and the others have been fighting until now. These are mounted on sleek horses, bearing uniforms in pristine black and brilliant scarlet as if their clothes are as much a sign of their patriotism as the flag their bannerman carries. None of the others have borne flags, few of them have even had so much as a single horse for a charge; and then Shizuo’s eyes jump up, cutting through a gap between two broad-shouldered guards and to the sheen of sunlight off dark hair behind them, and his breathing catches on understanding at the same time his heart stalls with recognition.

“Your Highness?” one of the soldiers alongside him asks, his voice quavering with uncertainty. He’s turned back to gaze wide-eyed at Shizuo, attention more caught by the sound of the other’s reaction than by the unusual sight in front of him; he’s looking for guidance, seeking out some kind of support from an authority figure. “What’s happening?”

Shizuo can’t answer. He should -- he’s here to lead the men around him, to serve as backup for Denis, somewhere out along the flank and well out of reach right now. But his eyes are fixed on shadows, his blood is running alight in his veins, and now, as ever, his awareness of his responsibilities slides through his fingers like ice melting to water under the heat of the roaring flame in his veins.

“ _You_ ,” he growls, the sound low and rumbling in his chest like thunder even though the intended target is still yards away, still hemmed in almost out of sight by the shoulders of his guards and the catch of the wind in elegant cloaks. Shizuo strides forward without looking away, without considering the soldiers around him; they break before him like water, leaping aside to clear a path as quickly as he steps into the gap they leave, but he only has eyes for the approaching group, for the figures mounted to a height enough to give all of them the advantage on him. He breaks free of the front line, stepping out into the mud of the battlefield without concern for the hiss of fright from behind him or the pleas for him to retreat; it’s not until he’s well clear of the rest of the men that he stops, bracing himself with his feet spread wide to grant himself solid strength for the weight of his sword and the clatter of his armor. When he takes a breath it’s deep and long, enough to fill his lungs with the heat of the air and the snap of the wind; and then he shouts, full-throated with the sound of it, angling forward so even the shift of his body grants his voice more power. “ _IZAYA!_ ”

The guards stall, the regal pace of their horses stuttering to an uncertain halt; and from the middle of them, still half-hidden behind the elegant livery, there’s a laugh, a cough of amusement in a voice Shizuo knows too well to mistake for even the span of a heartbeat. A horse shifts, the guards pull away; and from the midst of them Izaya emerges, riding forward from the cluster of his official protectors with his chin lifted high and his whole bearing as regal as if he’s arrived to accept Shizuo’s surrender to his own superiority.

“My goodness,” he lilts, his voice purring in his throat like heat lightning enough to match the thunder of Shizuo’s heartbeat in his throat. “And here we find the ogre prince in his most natural state.” Izaya’s lashes dip, his head tilts. “What a beautiful sight. Blood suits you well, you know.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo growls, a little softer, less of a demand now that he has Izaya in his sights, now that he can see the angle of the other’s shoulders and not just imagine it. “I’m going to kill you.”

“While I’m on a horse?” Izaya asks. “I would be the last to doubt your ability but don’t you think that’s giving me a bit  _too_  much of an advantage?” His mouth drags on a grin as Shizuo growls incoherent response with enough threat on the sound to make Izaya’s horse shy back from him; Izaya doesn’t appear at all discomfited by the motion, doesn’t look the least unbalanced atop his perch. “Calm down, you’ll get your fight.”

He rocks his weight back against his saddle, angles his shoulders back into an elegant line; when he speaks his voice is clear and ringing, pitched to carry out to all the assembled soldiers at Shizuo’s back and the guards behind his own at one and the same time. “Heiwajima Shizuo, crown prince of Boscan, I do formally challenge you to a duel as the official heir to the throne of Numora.” His mouth is curling at the corner; but his eyes are dark as a moonless night, impossible to read even if they were far closer than they are. “The terms are the outright surrender of the loser on behalf of himself and of his country to the victor, to be formally recognized by a treaty as soon as reasonably possible.” He ducks his chin and fixes Shizuo with the full dark of his stare. “Do you accept?”

Shizuo knows what he ought to do. This is a simple question, so obvious he doesn’t need Kasuka’s explanation or Tom’s urging to know how to reply. Numora has been breaking itself upon Boscan’s military for weeks, they have failed in gaining any traction over the whole duration of the battles Shizuo has seen; this is a last, desperate attempt at victory, a means to seize success when all other hope is lost. If Shizuo refuses the full weight of the Boscan military will support him, their triumph will be all but assured; a refusal might result in an immediate surrender, if things are dire enough to demand the crown prince himself offering a trial by combat. But Izaya is there in front of him, his lips curved on a smile and his eyes dark with that same promise Shizuo has never been able to pin down, has never been able to make sense of; and in this setting, in this moment, with his heart pounding like a drumbeat in his chest, Shizuo is sure Izaya knows what he will say as well as he does himself.

“Yes,” he says, growling the word to volume enough to carry to everyone who heard Izaya’s proclamation, all those surrounding them he can’t turn to see, can’t spare the thought to even glance at. “I accept.”

Shizuo has never been able to think about anyone or anything else when he has Izaya in front of him.


	18. Instinct

It takes a few minutes for the preparations to be complete. Izaya has to dismount, has to slide out of the height of his saddle and land his shining boots against the mud of the battlefield around them; and he has to strip off the weight of the elegant cloak he has around his shoulders, and hand it up to one of his honor guards, and generally fuss with the thousand little details to prepare himself for something rougher than prancing around atop his horse. By contrast Shizuo has almost nothing to do; it’s enough just to fall back, to step into the space rapidly cleared by the Boscan infantry behind him and to steady his hold on the sword in his hands. His fellow soldiers offer him a different sword, a whole variety of smaller weapons that will give him a free arm to hold the weight of a shield before himself, to grant him some kind of defensive capabilities; but Shizuo shakes his head, silently refusing all offers as his ducks his head, and tightens his grip on his two-handed sword, and waits. It doesn’t matter what weapon he has, doesn’t matter what kind of armor he’s wearing; this is just the conclusion of a single ongoing battle, of a fight that’s gone on too long already, and he’s not about to delay it further. So he braces himself in place, planting his feet hard against the slippery earth as his men fall into a semicircle around him to shape out the suggestion of an arena, and he looks up from under the sweat-damp fall of his hair, and he waits for Izaya to come to him.

Izaya claims a true weapon, this time. Shizuo had wondered vaguely if he would produce a fencing foil from somewhere, if this isn’t to be an exact replica of those inconclusive fights they had on the Boscan training grounds; but it’s not a practice fight, this time, and a single hit won’t be enough to claim victory for either of them. When Izaya draws a sword free of the scabbard one of his guards offers for him it’s a real weapon, full length and weight even if it’s shining unstained by the blood and dents Shizuo’s own carries, and when he reaches up with his free hand it’s to have a shield strapped onto his arm, to curl his grip in tight around the leather straps on the other side that will let him maneuver the barrier of it before any of Shizuo’s blows. His guardsmen produce a helmet, the metal of it polished and shining in the heat of the sunlight, and one of the soldiers behind Shizuo taps him at the shoulder with Shizuo’s own, far more battered and one Shizuo trusts far more than all the blinding shine of Izaya’s. He reaches to take it one-handed, to push the weight of it down and over the sweat-dark of his hair as Izaya turns to step forward, and by the time Shizuo is replacing his grip against the handle of his oversized sword Izaya is coming into range, picking his way over the muddy ground with his head ducked down to watch his footing instead of Shizuo. Shizuo waits for him to approach, waits until Izaya chooses his position and sets his feet in place; and then Izaya raises his head, and for a moment they’re gazing at each other through the gaps of metal in their helmets.

No one speaks. The field is silent, Izaya’s pretty guardsmen as still as Shizuo’s battered soldiers; Izaya is standing carefully, his body angled as precisely as if he’s copying a pose from official instruction while Shizuo just clutches at the handle of his sword, more determined to maintain his grip than anything more elegant. There’s a rustle of wind, a glint of sunlight off bright-polished metal; and then Izaya tips his head, and there’s a flicker of a smile from the under the shadows of his helmet, and Shizuo understands the signal to begin without needing to be told.

Shizuo moves first. It’s impossible to linger any longer; his whole body is taut with adrenaline, every part of him thrumming with the need to charge forward. He doesn’t run, doesn’t sprint into Izaya’s attack as his instinct demands; he just steps, planting his feet with every step to keep his balance rock-steady as he draws nearer. Izaya shifts away, circling sideways with careful intent instead of the whip-quick motions Shizuo has always seen from him before; but then, his focus is heightened too, his whole attention locked on Shizuo without any to spare for even the mocking taunts he usually throws. He just moves, keeping his distance as Shizuo approaches, staying just out of range of the full strength of Shizuo’s sword. They continue like that for a while, Shizuo stalking Izaya like a predator approaching its prey; and then Izaya tenses, and Shizuo lunges forward, and they clatter together in a screech of metal-on-metal. Shizuo’s sword swings up and around, slicing through the air and towards Izaya’s head; but Izaya’s weapon comes up to meet it, to shed some portion of the blow long enough to let him dart sideways. He’s slower, like this, burdened by the necessity of armor and shield; but his weapon is better too, more suited to throw off the force of Shizuo’s, and the action buys him enough time to veer sideways. Shizuo doesn’t wait, this time; he comes at Izaya directly, cutting sharply across the muddy ground to offer a follow-up swing from the other direction, so suddenly that Izaya’s boots slip and nearly drop him to the ground before he can catch his footing enough to stumble in the other direction. He’s moving too fast for Shizuo to catch; but Shizuo lets him go, taking his time instead to turn and center himself for his next attack.

Izaya does better than Shizuo expected. Shizuo’s never fought him like this before, has never before exchanged blows-for-blows as they are doing here; Izaya has more strength than he looks to, is more agile with the weapon in his hand and the burden of his armor than Shizuo would have believed anyone capable of. But the footing is slippery, the terrain ill-suited for the skipping dodges that Izaya prefers, and Shizuo can see the other grimacing with each glancing blow Shizuo lands, as if Izaya’s feeling the pain of the impact in the very marrow of his bones. He holds steady for the span of a few minutes, resisting the weight of Shizuo’s full-force blows with a resilience Shizuo didn’t know he had in him; but Shizuo can sense the force of exhaustion in Izaya as clearly as if he can see the other’s weariness growing with every moment that passes, as if there is a timer on Izaya’s actions to spur him to haste before the strength of his body gives way completely. There’s a desperation in the set of his shoulders, in the grip of his hand on his weapon; and so when Izaya lunges forward to throw a sharp blow against the side of Shizuo’s chest, Shizuo doesn’t so much as blink at the speed of the other’s movement.

Izaya closes with him, stepping in right against the span of Shizuo’s chest; and his sword swings around, slamming hard against the side of Shizuo’s armor with nothing at all to block the impact. Shizuo huffs at the blow, the air in his lungs knocked loose of his chest by the impact with Izaya’s sword; but he stays on his feet, doesn’t so much as stumble at the crushing force of the blow. Izaya’s head lifts, his eyes going wide behind the shadows of his helmet in an unusual display of shock; but Shizuo doesn’t wait to see the bright of surprise break over Izaya’s face. The other stepped in close for that last blow, betting his safety on the certainty of knocking Shizuo off his feet; but Shizuo is still standing, and Shizuo is lifting his sword into an arcing swing, and he can feel the solid weight of absolute conviction as it comes down. Izaya’s balance is all wrong, he can’t dart away with the swing of his sword still forcing his weight over his near foot; and Shizuo’s weapon comes down, the blade slams hard against the curve of Izaya’s back, and Izaya goes forward at once, knocked right off his feet by the force of Shizuo’s blow. He lands hard against the mud underfoot, barely getting his hands out in time to save himself from slamming face-first into the ground, and Shizuo steps back to steady himself while Izaya grits his teeth and struggles to his feet once more. Izaya gets his legs under him, his balance visibly shaky but his body upright, at least for now; and then he lifts his sword from his side, and draws it around through the air, and comes in to take a wild swing as he stumbles forward. Shizuo parries without thinking, without hesitating; and then he brings his own weapon around, and crushes the force of it against Izaya’s hip, this time. Izaya stumbles back, retreating by a few uncertain steps; and Shizuo follows with all the certainty of that predatory instinct he felt rising to flare hot in his veins, to sweep crimson out to dominate his thoughts.

The fight is over. Shizuo can see it is, can feel it in every shaky parry Izaya musters, in how easy it is to knock past the resistance of the other’s weapon to smash his own blows against Izaya’s chest, arm, shoulder. Izaya keeps trying, to his credit: there’s no dropping to his knees, no pleading for mercy. But his steps are unsteady, his movements clumsy, everything about his actions telegraphing the kind of mortal injury that tells Shizuo to press his advantage, to close at his own leisure while Izaya is too wounded to rebuff him. Izaya tries a swing at Shizuo’s head as the other steps in closer, a wild blow that would likely slide right off Shizuo’s helmet even if it were to land; Shizuo cuts it down with a blow to the other’s arm, the force enough that he can hear the  _crack_  of bone clear over the rattle of armor even before Izaya’s fingers go slack to drop his weapon to the ground. The next swing comes in low, hard against the line of the other’s thigh, and Izaya collapses to his knees as if Shizuo has cut straight through him as his legs give way to this too-much abuse. He raises his shield over his head in a last futile attempt to protect himself from the other’s attack; Shizuo’s sword slams down against the flat of it, the impact enough to knock Izaya’s shoulder back and out of its socket even before he catches the blade under the edge of the barrier to jerk it sideways and away. The motion wrenches Izaya’s arm wide before he can loosen his hold on the straps holding the shield to his arm, his wrist snaps back against the motion of the joint, and the shield clatters to the ground, falling outside Izaya’s reach even if there were any strength left in the hand falling slack to his side. Izaya stares out at his shield for a moment, his shoulders visibly trembling with the pant of his breathing; and then Shizuo steps in closer, his shadow falling over Izaya before him. His heart is pounding, his arms are aching; but his grip on his sword is certain, his movement is graceful as he hefts the weight of the weapon over his head. Izaya’s chin lifts, his gaze rises to flicker over Shizuo’s upraised sword; and then he huffs an exhale, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet of the field, and he lifts his empty hand to catch at the edge of his helmet and drag it off in a single sharp movement. His arm falls to his side, the helmet topples from his slack fingers; and he lifts his head again, bringing his gaze up to meet Shizuo’s as the other stands over him.

“Fine,” he says; and he lifts his chin, baring the pale line of his throat as he keeps the dark of his eyes fixed on Shizuo’s. His eyes are tight with what must be pain, his face is utterly bloodless with the proof of his injuries; but his lips tighten against a whisper of a smile, the corner of his mouth twists with what might be almost a laugh, if it were anywhere near the shadows of his eyes. Shizuo can see the rhythm of Izaya’s adrenaline-sped heartbeat fluttering in the taut line of his throat. “Do it, monster.”

Shizuo can feel his whole body go cold. It’s as if Izaya’s words are a blow, a lance of ice sliding past the joints of his armor to run straight through his heart; as if they’re lightning striking from the clear sky overhead to throw him back into himself, to grant him back the rationality that fled from him with the hunter’s instinct that took over his body. Victory is in front of him, triumph is within his grasp; and Izaya is on his knees before him, broken and beaten and offering up his life for the thirsty edge of Shizuo’s blade. Shizuo’s sword is upraised, his arms are tense with the expectation of swinging down to crush resistance out of the foe before him; and Izaya is staring up at him, his face as familiar as the tug of a smile at his lips, that held-back laughter that Shizuo was about to snuff out without even thinking about it. If he hadn’t pulled his helmet free, if he hadn’t offered the taunt of those words...and Shizuo’s fingers go slack on the hilt of his sword, his weapon falls from his grip to clatter to the muddy ground behind him. He takes a stumbling step backwards, retreating from the danger of Izaya’s smile, from the reflexive impulse to destroy his opponent, from the reality of what his battle instinct almost carried him into doing. Izaya’s lashes dip, the tension at his mouth falters; and then he ducks his head forward, and struggles over a breath, and collapses into the mud without even lifting a hand to try to catch himself.

There’s a moment of absolute silence: from Shizuo’s men, from Izaya’s guards, from Shizuo himself standing staring at Izaya’s still form in front of him. Then someone takes a breath from behind him, and someone else raises an uncertain cheer, and then the whole of the army at Shizuo’s back is shouting at once, voices toppling over each other with enthusiasm as bright now as the tension was a moment before. Izaya’s guards slide out of their saddles, darting forward with hunched shoulders as if they’re expecting an attack to land on them even as they crowd in and around their fallen prince; but Shizuo’s hands are empty, and his men are too busy cheering their assumed victory to bother with an enemy so clearly occupied. Shizuo watches the guards turn Izaya over onto his back, watches desperate hands catch and cradle the slack weight of his head; hears a low, panicked murmur of “Get him out of his armor!” and “Cut it free, it’ll be better than moving him.” A pair of broad shoulders steps between Shizuo and Izaya, a guard leaning in to hunch over the other’s motionless form; and then a hand claps against Shizuo’s shoulders, a blow of enthusiastic excitement from the soldiers behind him, and when Shizuo turns his head it’s to be met with countless smiles, with faces sunbright and wide-eyed with the impossible truth: that the battle is won, that the war is over. Shizuo blinks, trying to gain traction on this moment, trying to reorient himself around the impossibility of what’s happening; but in front of him there is only celebration, only a swelling joy he can no more make sense of than he can join in it.

Even with his hands slack and empty at his sides, he can feel the weight of Izaya’s blood staining the curl of his fingers.


	19. Politic

Shizuo is invited to the signing of the peace treaty.

It’s a sign of honor, he’s told. Tom says it, when the invitation is first received from the hands of the messenger who keeps his head bowed and his voice soft for the whole of the conversation he has with Shizuo’s father in the royal audience he is granted out of respect for Numora’s status even in defeat. Kasuka mentions it in passing, when he comments that it’s probably Shizuo’s strength as much as anything else that is being lauded, and that he’s made a better impression on the field than he did in any of the political conversations. Even Celty brings it up, in that chipper tone she always adopts when she’s trying to soothe some obvious sign of stress from Shizuo’s mental state while she polishes his appearance to the perfection it ought to be. It’s all supposed to be reassurance, Shizuo knows, a reminder of his success, a sign of the hero he is to his people for definitively ending the war.

He doesn’t feel like a hero. He feels like a murderer, no matter how smooth his carefully tied hair and no matter how fine the clothes Celty drapes around him. He is trapped by his dreams, held under the dark surface of unconsciousness by nightmares of blood and broken bones until he finally rouses himself shouting, sitting straight up from the tangle of fever-damp blankets he’s caught himself in with his heart racing as if he’s been sprinting. He’s afraid to go to the training fields, afraid to so much as lay a hand on any of the weapons there; he doesn’t want to feel that purr of instinct again, doesn’t want to remember the almost-satisfaction that came with his stalking approach on a fallen enemy, that sense of animal certainty that told him to raise his weapon, to end the struggle of his prey before he sustained greater injury himself. Izaya was still breathing when Shizuo dropped his sword, that much he’s sure of; but he doesn’t know what he did, he isn’t sure how much damage his earlier attacks left. He can remember the clatter of metal-on-metal, can remember the resistance of shining armor denting and giving way to the force of his blows; but he doesn’t know if he broke skin, doesn’t know if he left Izaya mottled with bruises or struggling to breathe past shattered ribs, doesn’t know if Izaya surfaced to consciousness or not after Shizuo lost sight of him in the crush of the crowd that swelled around both of them. He’s afraid to ask, afraid to know what he’s done; and yet it haunts him, clings to his dreams and tangles his thoughts until he can barely hold a conversation for the guilt that winds itself into the curve of his spine and knots his tongue with the confession he wants to give, with the plea for forgiveness from the one person he never wanted anything from before now. But Izaya’s not here -- he may never be here again -- and so Shizuo stifles the ache in his chest, and sweats through the burden of his dreams, and he lets Celty give him the appearance of a prince instead of that of the monster he’s afraid, now, he’s become in truth.

Signing the treaty is an extended process. There are no negotiations left -- there is nothing to discuss, no point to debate when Numora is a conquered kingdom -- but there is still an official reading of the whole length of it, with every detail precisely articulated to a room as rapt as if they are actually following the specifics. Shizuo has been told the basic structure of the agreement, although he doesn’t remember much beyond the major facts: Numora is to retain their monarchy, to continue to rule under their own power so long as their military force is disbanded, to be replaced by a portion of the Boscan infantry to guard the country’s borders and ensure that Numora causes no further problems. What Shizuo cares about are the specifics, the details of who, exactly, is expected to ascend to the throne upon the conclusion of the current king’s rule; and that is never stated. There are no names in the treaty, beyond the overarching ones of the countries themselves, and no discussion of any of the terms; or, if there are, Shizuo is never invited to those meetings, whether from consideration of his own assumed feelings or care for Numora’s, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that the treaty makes no specifics as to the ruling family, and that the Numoran delegates come bearing the king’s seal rather than a representative from the family itself, and that the whole time the treaty is being recited all he can think about is how many of Izaya’s bones he broke to pay for this, is how much of this treaty could be written in the blood spilled by his own hand from Numoran skin.

There is no celebration. A war is hardly an event to be celebrated, even the conclusion of one; and this is a stripping of nearly all Numora’s power as well as any hope they have of military sovereignty for long generations, if not permanently. The delegation is invited to stay through the night, should they wish to save themselves the burden of travel; but they refuse to a man, polite and smiling and with their shoulders so straight on wounded pride that Shizuo thinks there was no need to ask in the first place. They bow their farewells, and make their exit; and no sooner are the doors closing behind them than Shizuo is moving, finally freed of his duty to stand silently at the front of the room and exude the most royal appearance he can by the conclusion to the event.

“Shizuo,” his mother calls, and “Your Highness,” Tom attempts; but Shizuo ignores them both, striding forward towards the side doors as if he doesn’t hear them, and if they mind his going neither of them try further to stop him. He’s grateful to that, in the back of his mind; but in the present moment there is no time to offer thanks, no time for anything but pushing the door open before even a servant can reach it and moving into the hallway with as much speed as if he’s running, with only the burden of his elegant clothing to keep him to the necessities of a walk.

The Numoran delegation is moving rapidly. They aren’t running any more than Shizuo is -- that would hardly be appropriate for a collection of honored guests, as honored now in their defeat as they were attacked in their rebellion -- but they clearly have no interest in staying in the palace any longer than they absolutely must, under the circumstances. But Shizuo knows the shortcuts through these halls, shadowy corridors and hidden doorways Celty showed him as a child and he still makes some use of now, and in the end he catches up with the delegation just as they are turning the corner to the main entrance where their travel will resume.

“Excuse me,” he shouts as he bursts into the corridor, speaking loudly to claim their attention over the low murmur of conversation they are having between themselves. “Excuse me!” One of the last of them turns around, glancing back over his shoulder idly; and stops dead, pivoting fully on his heel to turn and give Shizuo his full attention.

“Your Highness,” he says, and ducks forward into a bow that prickles Shizuo’s skin with discomfort even as the other offers him the full weight of respect his title deserves. It doesn’t seem fair, Shizuo thinks, that politics should demand a man show deference to someone who did his level best to murder the prince of his own country. “My apologies. We were just about to begin our return travel. Is there a problem?”

Shizuo shakes his head, action speaking better for him than he can find the words to push aside the other’s question. “No,” he says. “No problem.” The Numoran lifts his head, meeting Shizuo’s gaze as he straightens; there’s a question behind his eyes, a demand for an explanation perfectly clear to see even if politeness keeps him from giving it voice. Shizuo can hardly begrudge him that; he’s the one standing in the middle of the hallway, out of breath and pulling on his position to keep these men where they don’t want to be instead of embarking on the journey back to the country that is their home. Shizuo takes a breath, and attempts to straighten his shoulders into certainty as he steadies his thoughts before he finally gives voice to the question that has been so haunting his sleep for the weeks since that last battle.

“Izaya,” he starts, blurting the other’s name with a force that sounds desperate even to his own ears. The Numoran representative’s eyebrows lift fractionally, rising towards his hairline in unvoiced reaction, and Shizuo grimaces and reaches to clarify. “The Numoran prince.”

“Yes,” the diplomat says, his tone so extraordinarily flat it manages to sound more sarcastic than open laughter would. “I am familiar with his name.”

“Right,” Shizuo says. “Is he...alright?” The silence in the hall sweeps in to fill the space behind his words, to draw out all the uncomfortable strain on his tone to his own ears; Shizuo grimaces again and lifts a hand to shove roughly through his hair as if to steady himself. “After our fight, I mean.”

The delegate looks at him for a moment. His expression is perfectly neutral, his eyes very dark; Shizuo can’t get any kind of a read on his reaction, can’t make even a guess as to the thoughts shifting behind that stare. Maybe he thinks Shizuo’s an idiot, maybe he’s thinks he’s a monster; maybe there’s hatred there, maybe there’s surprise for the framing of the question. Shizuo doesn’t know, can’t even attempt to pick apart the logic that must be running through the other’s head; all he can do is stand still where he is, holding that dark stare with all the defiant stubbornness he can muster. They gaze at each other for a long moment, the Numoran’s flat stare meeting Shizuo’s determined focus; and then the delegate ducks his head, and when he speaks it’s to offer the words to the floor just before Shizuo’s feet instead of to Shizuo himself.

“I understand your concern,” he says. For a moment Shizuo is surprised, startled in spite of himself that his feelings could be so clearly telegraphed through a single brief question. The delegate goes on without looking up. “I assure you, you will encounter no further resistance from him in whatever you choose to do. Your victory is as assured as your country’s in this and in all cases.”

Shizuo blinks. “Wait,” he says. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Numora understands there was much animosity between the two of you formed during our last visit,” the delegate continues, as smoothly as if he didn’t hear Shizuo’s protest at all. “You may rest easy in your triumph. I promise you, Prince Izaya will be no further trouble to you or to your country.” He tips forward into another bow; a deeper one than is called for, a measure of subservience better suited to a servant than to his role. “If your highness will permit our departure?”

Shizuo presses his lips together and swallows hard against the knot in his throat. He wants to protest, wants to insist that it’s Izaya’s well-being he’s concerned about, not the threat the other might present; wants to grab at the crisp collar of the delegate’s coat and shove him up against a wall to demand whatever information he is holding unspoken behind that dark stare of his. But the entire delegation is watching him now, their expressions so perfectly flat that Shizuo can more than imagine the hatred behind those polite masks, and every one of them is held in place by the demands of propriety until he allows them to go.

Shizuo takes a step back down the hall, retreating even as his chest aches, even as his jaw tightens on the frustration that always comes with the sense of a cage around him, with the awareness of the restraint that so ill-suits his personality and preferences at once. “Of course,” he says, in a voice so distant he barely recognizes it as his own, and he ducks forward into a bow himself, one suitable to honored guests instead of the supplicants the delegates are in fact. “Safe travels.”

After all the harm his temper has done already, the least Shizuo can offer to their visitors now is behavior suitable to his role.


	20. Decisive

Everything is very quiet after the treaty is signed.

There’s nothing for Shizuo to do. His nightmares ease, a little, unravelling their grip on his psyche with the buffer of time and his own exhaustion to wear the sharp edges free; he still wakes up in a cold sweat a few times a month, but the weight of it lightens, until he doesn’t dread shutting his eyes to the shadows of his night-dark bedroom. He still doesn’t return to the training grounds -- there are too many memories there, too many echoes of laughter and too much to catch the light like a half-seen smile at the corner of his eye -- but that just gives him more time to devote to his studies within the castle walls. His attention is still scattered, his patience is still thin; but with nothing better to do stubbornness takes over where talent fails, and he begins to make progress, even if it comes with the necessity of repeating every lesson thrice over. His tutors are tentatively pleased, his parents are delighted; even Kasuka compliments him, when Shizuo emerges from a particularly grueling history lesson to find his brother reading just outside the door. He doesn’t know how long Kasuka’s been there, doesn’t know how much he’s heard; but “You’re doing well,” Kasuka says, simple and unhesitating, and then he gets to his feet to take Shizuo’s place and leave the other standing in the hallway staring shock at this unprecedented gesture of overt approval. Shizuo feels like he’s becoming the prince everyone needs him to be, like he’s finally fitting himself into the outline of the role he was born to; his temper remains controlled, however much it may thrash at the bars of its self-imposed cage, and his behavior remains utterly correct, his whole existence conforming to the space that has always been waiting for him to occupy it.

Shizuo hates it. He feels stifled, suffocated, like he’s sinking into the darkness of an ocean he doesn’t know how to swim up from; there’s no energy in him, no thrill of adrenaline in his veins and no spark of excitement in his life. He trudges through his classes until he knows the material so well he can recite it back in his sleep, struggles through dance lessons and practices deportment until he can provide a passable performance at a ball or a formal dinner alike; and he feels himself going cold, as if he’s walking through the chill of an endless night waiting for a dawn that refuses to come. Sometimes there’s a flicker of warmth, something sufficiently frustrating that he can feel his temper stirring to life, can feel the flare of frustration uncurling itself into him again; and then he’ll remember the drag of an exhausted smile, a silk-smooth voice worn rough on pain:  _do it, monster_ , and his anger dies like it was never there at all, crushed out under the weight of guilt he can’t shake no matter what he does.

The meetings are the worst. There’s never enough happening to hold Shizuo’s attention, never enough motion to keep his mind on the shift of his body instead of the shadows of his thoughts; he loses himself to memory for hours, sometimes, as absent from what’s happening around him as if he weren’t in the room at all, as if the sound of the discussion is nothing more than the lull of an ocean dragging him down into the shadows he doesn’t want to visit. His gaze locks onto the blank parchment in front of him, or the shine of candlelight in the glass before him, and he slides into reminiscence the darker for its unpleasantness, into trains of thought the worse for their uncertainty.

He wonders if he did end up killing Izaya, in the end. Was his question after the other’s health taken as mockery by that dark-eyed delegate, was it the assumed insult that bought Shizuo such a stilted response? Or was it the level of damage he inflicted that did that, or the assumed rivalry that Shizuo isn’t even sure ever existed properly in the first place? It’s true he and Izaya were unable to keep away from each other, that so much as existing in the same space seemed to strike sparks from the clear air between them; but for all Shizuo’s growling and Izaya’s laughter, Shizuo doesn’t think any of it was truly serious until that last fight, with sweat sticky at the back of his neck and mud ground in under his fingernails where he was clinging to the hilt of a bloodstained sword. Izaya had always dodged, before, had always danced back with a grin at his lips and invisible wings at his heels, as casually as if he had been sure Shizuo wouldn’t really try to hit him; and Shizuo isn’t sure, now, that he ever really  _was_ trying, for all the burn in his veins and grit at his jaw. His swings were slower, his movements weightier; he was never really surprised by Izaya slipping out from under the threat of his sword, never really startled by the speed of the other’s movements. It was as if they were dancing more than fighting, as if they were acting out the choreographed motions of partners leading each other across the polished smooth of a ballroom floor rather than the dusty ground of the training field; and it’s then that a voice cuts through Shizuo’s distraction, “Your Highness?” in a clear enough tone that it drags his attention finally free of where he has been wandering.

Shizuo lifts his head at once. The others at the table are looking down at their own documents or reaching for glasses, so the question hasn’t been repeated too many times; the only person who’s looking at him is Tom a few seats down on the other side of the table, his expression fixed into his usual polite attention regardless of the reaction he’s facing.

“Yes,” Shizuo says, to acknowledge the question even though he has no idea what the details are. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”

Tom doesn’t so much as bat an eye; to his credit, Shizuo thinks, or maybe just a sign of how accustomed he is to dealing with Shizuo’s constant struggles when it comes to this kind of diplomacy. “We were speaking of the next steps after the signing of the recent peace treaty,” he says, as calmly as if Shizuo has only just entered the room instead of proving his own inattention for however long this subject has been under discussion. “With the kingdom of Numora.”

“Yes,” Shizuo says, his voice dipping down into the beginning of a growl. “I know who we signed a peace treaty with.”

Tom ducks his head in acknowledgment of this point. “It’s been some time since the conclusion of the negotiations,” he says; a polite way to frame the span of time since Numora was left to lick its wounds after their complete loss in the war between both nations. “As one of our nearest neighbors, it would benefit us to maintain a reasonably close relationship with Numora; all the more so in light of our recent interactions.”

“Sure,” Shizuo says. “So what, we send a group of delegates to give in to some of their requests and show we’re going to play nice?”

Tom ducks his head and lifts a hand in front of his mouth as he coughs delicately; it’s not quite enough to hide the smile at his lips, any more than the king turning his head is enough to hide his. Shizuo can feel his face heat, can feel his jaw set on embarrassment, but:

“Something like that,” Tom admits. “We were hoping to send a small group to serve as an honorary delegation, more for appearances than for politics.” He folds his hands against the top of the table and collects his composure around himself once more as he gets his almost-laughter under control. “It would only be for a few weeks, a month at the outside. There would be hardly any negotiation at all; simply a matter of making conversation and indicating our willingness to be good guests.”

“We should send someone from the royal family.” That’s Kasuka, from Shizuo’s side of the table; he’s looking into his glass when Shizuo looks at him, his attention fixed on the liquid within rather than on his brother. “Not mother or father, of course. Ruri and I have a series of balls coming up to celebrate our official engagement; we could postpone until afterwards, but the delay might be excessive.”

“Kasuka mentioned that your studies have been going quite well lately,” the king cuts in, as smoothly as if he and Kasuka had planned this between them. “We are quite glad to see your recent focus on diplomacy. If you were at all interested in a more immediate test of your recent skills--”

“ _Yes_.”

It’s too loud. Shizuo knows it is, knows that he spoke too quickly and too suddenly, can feel it in the sound of his voice echoing off the walls even before the rest of the heads at the table lift to stare wide-eyed up at him. His agreement is too fast, too immediate and too unexpected; and it’s not helped by the way he’s shoved to his feet, his body acting of its own volition to surge him upright with such speed that his chair rattles and nearly falls behind him. Shizuo doesn’t turn to look at it, doesn’t look down to meet any of the startled gazes fixed on him; he’s only looking to his father, his full focus cast on the person offering him that one thing he has been craving with all the desperate force of an impossible dream all these weeks.

“Yes,” he says again; a little more softly, a little more carefully, but just as certain, just as unwaveringly absolute in the taste of the words on his tongue. “I’ll go to Numora.” He closes his mouth and swallows hard against the knot in his throat, around the pressure of excitement too much for him to quite breathe around.

His father blinks. Shizuo isn’t sure he’s ever seen him so visibly discomposed by surprise. “Are you certain? You have had tensions with Numora before; if you would prefer to wait for a less tense opportunity for diplomacy we could of course accommodate that.”

“No,” Shizuo says at once, without even waiting to think about his answer. “No, I’ll go.” He takes a breath, reaching for something sufficient to convince his father. “I’d  _like_  to go.” He can feel his heart fluttering in his chest, can feel adrenaline coursing fire through his veins; and then he ducks his head, and tips forward into the bow of a petitioner, deep enough that he can hear the hiss of surprise flicker around the audience around the rest of the table.

“Please,” he says, staring straight at the surface of the table before him as his heartbeat races in his throat. “Please permit me to go.”

It’s an outrageous request, far more dramatic than Shizuo has any real need to make; but it’s only when he hears his father’s huff of capitulation and “It’s decided, then” in a tone as much wondering as decisive, that he can shut his eyes and let the tension in his chest go in the rush of a sigh.

He doesn’t know what -- or who -- will be waiting for him in Numora; but he does know that now, for the first time in long weeks, he feels alive in the space of his own body.


End file.
